r 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


..IN    THE    SIXTIES    AND    SEVENTIES 


IN   THE   SIXTIES 
AND   SEVENTIES 

Impressions    of    Literary    People 
and    Others  ^  ^  ^ 

By  LAURA  HAIN  FRISWELL 


BOSTON 

HERBERT    B.    TURNER   &    COMPANY 

683    ATLANTIC    AVENUE 
1906 


PRIJITED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


c-r 


M 


PREFACE 


IN  writing  this  book,  I  have  tried  to  picture  certain 
scenes  in  the  life  of  a  young  girl,  the  only  daughter 
of  two  most  unworldly  idealists  who  tried  to  live 
the  Gentle  Life,  or  in  other  words,  the  Simple  Life. 
The  girl  was,  from  her  earliest  years,  thrown  amongst 
an  exceptional  set  of  people,  most  of  whom  were 
then,  or  have  since  become,  celebrated.  I  have  done 
my  best  to  draw  pictures  of  these  people,  and  to 
describe  their  relations  to  the  girl,  their  kindness  to 
her,  and  the  impressions  they  made  upon  her.  I  have 
also  essayed  to  depict  the  beginnings  of  certain  move- 
ments that  were  to  reform  Society  and  what  are 
called  the  "  Lower  Classes,"  but  which,  like  so  many 
such   schemes,  have  fallen  into  disuse  or  abuse. 

I  will  only  add  that  I  earnestly  hope  that  the  pre- 
diction of  the  late  Mr.  H.  D.  Traill  will  come  true,  and 
that  In  the  Sixties  and  Seventies  will  please  the  public. 

LAURA    HAIN    FRISWELL 

Wimbledon,   1905. 


76361.1 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER    I 

James  Haiti  Friswell,  Essayist,  Critic,  and  Novelist ;  Author  of 
The  Gentle  Life— The  "  Institooshun  "—Mr.  Friswell's 
Courage — "  Little  Toddlekins  "  and  her  Father 


CHAPTER   II 

Toddlekins  and  George  Cruikshank — Cruikshank's  Great  Picture, 
T/ie  Worship  of  Bacchus — Cruikshank  and  Temperance — 
The  Chevalier  and  Madame  de  Chatelain— Andrew  Halliday 
and  Toddlekins— The  Broughs 


CHAPTER    III 

Supper-rooms— Ross  the  Singer—"  Evans's  "—A  Pathetic  Story 
— My  Visit  to  "  Evans's  " — We  see  the  Prince  of  Wales — 
Paddy  Green 3^ 

CHAPTER    IV 

Under  a  Cloud— The  Burtons— To  School  at  Watford— Yellow- 
backed  Novels — The  Specimen  Pupil— Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gerald 
Massey — Thomas  Cooper,  Chartist 43 

CHAPTER   V 

Mr.  Edward  Draper,  a  Literary  Solicitor — Some  Memorable  Days 
—  I  leave  School — Dr.  Benjamin  Ward  Richardson — An 
Awkward  Position — Mr.  Edward  Clarke — Dr.  Pankhurst — A 
Successful  Case — A  Large  Children's  Party    .         .         .         .61 


vlii  Contents 


CHAPTER  VI 


PAGE 


The  Bayard  Series — Anecdotes  of  Mr.  Swinburne — Swinburne 
comes  to  Tea — The  Ralston  Russian  Stories — Mr.  Swinburne 
again 73 

CHAPTER   VII 

"  The  Angel  Epps " — A  Glimpse  of  Mrs.  Langtry — Mr.  Du 
Maurier  enjoys  a  Hearty  Laugh — Mrs.  Du  Maurier  and  her 
Husband's  Sketches — The  Last  Time  I  saw  Mr.  Du  Maurier      84 

CHAPTER   VIII 

A  Queen  Anne  House — An  Indian  Prince — A  Vision  of  the  Past 

— A  Large  "  At  Home  " 92 

CHAPTER    IX 

"  The  Duchess  " — A  Serious  Accident — Professor  Morley — 
"  A  Story  from  Boccaccio  " — Prince  Jon  Ghica — A  Letter 
from  Kingsley — Alton  Locke  and  Thomas  Cooper — I  meet 
Charles  Kingsley 104 

CHAPTER   X 

The  Play — The  Prince  of  Wales's  Theatre— Marie  Wilton — Mr. 
Montague — J.  S.  Rice,  and  "  Proposals  from  the  Fair  Sex  " — 
Behind  the  Scenes — Creswick — True  to  the  Core — Creswick 
as  "Hamlet" — Irving  as  "Hamlet" — Henry  Marston — 
Phelps — Marston  in  Danger  of  his  Life — Miss  Marriott .         .     Il8 

CHAPTER   XI 

Mr.  J.  L.  Toole — His  Practical  Jokes — Irving  in  Dearer  than. 
Life — Mr.  W.  S.  Gilbert — "The  House  where  the  Plague 
broke  out" 133 

CHAPTER   XII 

The  Death  of  Nellie  Moore — Irving,  and  Mendelssohn's  Songs 
without  Words — Misgivings  about  The  Bells — The  First 
Night  of  The  Bells 143 


Contents  ix 


CHAPTER   XIII 


PAGE 


The  Rev.  J.  M.  Bellew — Reflections  on  the  Church — Bellew  and 
the  Furniture — Bellew  as  a  Public  Reader — A  Reading  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet — Bellew  leaves  the  Church  .         .         -152 

CHAPTER   XIV 

Introduced  to  Charles  Dickens — "Like  Little  Nell" — The  Fare- 
well Dinner  to  Dickens — Anthony  TroUope — Lord  Lytton — 
A  Curious  Scene — Introduced  to  Tennyson    ....     164 

CHAPTER   XV 

James    Hain    Friswell's    Philanthropy — The   Censor   Dinners — 

Slumming  in  those  Days — A  Sad  Story — "  Have  we  beat  ?  ".     176 

CHAPTER   XVI 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Justin  McCarthy — William  Barry — Miss  Heraud — 
Henrie  Drayton — The  Gingerbread  Maiden — Letters  from 
Hans  Christian  Andersen         .         .         .         .         .         .         .192 

CHAPTER   XVII 

An  "At  Home"  at  the  McCarthys' — William  Black — Mr.  Rice 
on  "  Women's  Heroes  " — William  Black's  Kindness — Richard 
Whiteing 204 

CHAPTER   XVIII 

Sir  Thomas  and  Lady  Duffus  Hardy — Iza  Duffus  Hardy — Youth- 
ful Sculptors — Blowing  Bubbles — Out  on  the  Roof — General 
Lowe       .         .         .         .         . 217 

CHAPTER   XIX 

Nick-names — "Marie  Antoinette" — "A  Modern  Antique" — A 
Dance  at  Lady  Hardy's — Curious  Partners — Lord  Romilly's 
Son — Louis  Blanc — I  dance  with  Louis  Blanc — Louis  Blanc 
and  "  Marie  Antoinette  " — General  Lowe     ....     225 


Contents 


CHAPTER   XX 


PAGE 


Madox  Brown— The  Pre-Raphaelite  Young  Ladies—"  A  Great 
Distinction  " — The  Pre-Raphaelite  Young  Ladies  on  WiUiam 
Morris — Sir  Benjamin  Richardson  on  Truth    ....     239 


CHAPTER   XXI 

Mr.  Joseph  Ellis — Snowed  up  on  the  Line — An  Old  English 
Home—"  Orion  "  Home — Mr.  Dallas — Miss  Isabella  Dallas 
Glyn — Miss  Glyn  on  Marriage — An  Evening  Party  and  an 
Amusing  Incident — A  New  Version  of  Petrarch  and  Laura     .     249 


CHAPTER   XXII 

At  Frampton  Court — The  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton  and  her  Sons — Two 
Amusing  Mistakes — Bexley  Heath — The  Village  Autocrats — 
Their  Opinion  of  the  Author  of  The  Earthly  Paradise  .        .     262 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

My  Father's  Illness — Rice's  Idea  of  Wit — A  Rush  for  the  Doctor 
— I  give  Mr.  Rice  a  Fright  by  Way  of  Revenge— Alone  at 
Bayard  Cottage 27 1 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

J.  S.  Rice  as  an  Editor — The  Offices  of  Once  a  Week — A  Recipe 
for  Falling  Hair — The  Mortimers — A  Wonderful  Review — 
Mr.  Rice's  Delight  thereat — Rice  on  Literary  Women    .         .     278 


CHAPTER   XXV 

Sir  Walter  Besant — The  Incorporated  Society  of  Authors — I  join 
the  Authors'  Society — An  Interview  with  Besant — He  dis- 
courses on  his  Favourite  Topic — The  Gentle  Life,  and  its 
Publishers — A  Letter  from  Lady  Lytton  ....     288 


Contents  xi 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

PAGE 

A  Dinner  at  the  Authors'  Society— I  first  see  Sir  H.  M.  Stanley 
— How  I  wished  he  had  not  found  Livingstone — My  Last 
Interview  with  Sir  Walter  Besant — His  Advice  on  Novel- 
writing     300 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

We  go  to  Live  at  Bexley  Heath — Reminiscences  of  Artemus 
Ward — Joseph  Hatton — Arthur  Sketchley — Sarah  Bern- 
hardt's  Exhibition  in  Piccadilly — A  Fashionable  Wedding — 
Gladstone  and  Sir  William  Harcourt 308 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

Old  Letters — Lady  Lytton's  Correspondence  with  my  Father — 
Some  Anecdotes  of  Benjamin  Disraeli — Disraeli's  Devotion 
to  his  Wife— Lady  Beaconsfield — Mr.  H.  D.  Traill  on  Remi- 
niscences— The  End 319 


In  the  Sixties  and   Seventies 


CHAPTER    I 


JAMES  HAIN  FRISWELL,  ESSAYIST,  CRITIC,  AND  NOVELIST;  AUTHOR 
OF  "THE  GENTLE  LIFE" — THE  "  INSTITOOSHUN  " — MR.  FRISWELL'S 
COURAGE — "LITTLE   TODDLEKINS  "   AND   HER   FATHER. 

"  "  I  "HERE  was  once  a  time,"  says  Thackeray  in 
X  The  NewcomeSy  "  when  the  sun  used  to  shine 
more  brightly  than  it  appears  to  do  in  this  latter  half 
of  the  nineteenth  century  ;  when  the  zest  of  life  was 
keener,  when  the  perusal  of  novels  was  productive  of 
immense  delight,  and  the  monthly  advent  of  magazine 
day  was  hailed  as  an  exciting  holiday  ;  when  to  know 
Thompson,  who  had  written  a  magazine  article,  was 
an  honour  and  a  privilege." 

We  do  not  feel  like  this  now  ;  there  are  too  many 
novels,  too  many  magazines  (all  alike  too),  and  too 
many  Thompsons  writing  ;  the  *'  privilege,"  it  seems, 
would  now  be  to  know  the  person  who  does  not  write. 
But  Thackeray  was  speaking  of  the  days  of  his  youth, 
and  yet  it  seems  to  me  this  passage  would  equally 
apply  to  the  time  when  he  was  writing  it.      I   do  not 

I 


2  In  the   Sixties   and  Seventies 

quite  know  the  year  The  Newcomes  first  appeared,  but 
if  it  was  published  as  he  wrote  it,  which  is  most  likely, 
it  must  have  been  in  1853  or  1854,  for  the  last  words 
were  written  in  Paris  in  June,    1855. 

At  this  time  there  lived  in  Pentonville,  then  a  some- 
what rural  neighbourhood,  a  young  couple  who  were 
enthusiastic  admirers  of  Thackeray.  The  day  that  the 
instalments  of  his  novels  came  out  was  "  hailed  as  an 
exciting  holiday  "  ;  and  though  the  stories  often  ran 
twenty-three  months,  it  was  not  a  day  too  long  for 
these  enthusiastic  young  people.  Should  we  keep  up 
our  interest  in  a  story  now  for  nearly  two  years .''  and 
could  any  one  feel  excited  over  magazine  day  } — but 
there  is  no  magazine  day,  because  there  are  more 
magazines  than  days  in  the  longest  month. 

This  young  couple,  who  were  known  to  their 
friends  as  "  the  model  couple,"  had  soaring  ambitions, 
and  a  great  idea  of  their  duty  to  their  fellow  creatures. 
The  young  man,  whose  name  was  James  Hain 
Friswell,  and  who  afterwards  became  well  known  in 
literary  circles,  and  to  the  world,  as  an  essayist  and 
novelist,  being  anxious  for  the  advancement  and 
education  of  the  masses,  taught  in  a  ragged  school  two 
or  three  times  a  week,  helping  his  schoolfellow,  the 
Rev.  Warwick  Wroth.  Mr  W^roth  was  a  remarkable 
man,  an  aesthetic  of  the  old  school,  and  the  first 
clergyman  of  the  Established  Church  to  don  vestments. 
Hard  work  and  fasting  undermined  his  health,  and  he 
died  at  an  early  age. 


James   Hain  Friswell  3 

Mr.  Friswell  not  only  helped  in  the  ragged  school, 
but  he  joined  an  institution  in  Gray's  Inn  Road,  where 
he  laboured  to  drum  into  the  heads  of  working-men 
mathematics  and  the  rudiments  of  Latin  and  Greek. 
The  institution  was  started  by  Mr.  Passmore  Edwards, 
whom  every  one  now  knows  for  his  philanthropic 
schemes  ;  he  was  even  then  laying  the  foundation 
for  those  greater  works,  and  the  young  author  threw 
himself  with  enthusiasm  into  his  scheme  for  helping 
the  poor.  He  was  an  idealist  ;  he  felt  he  was  im- 
proving mankind,  and  making  the  world,  in  his  little 
way,  better  than  he  found  it.  This  thought  was 
his  reward  ;  and  as  he  looked  at  the  whitewashed  walls 
of  the  "  institooshun,"  as  his  pupils  called  it,  he  felt 
he  was  not  living  quite  uselessly. 

Those  were  the  days  when  there  was  so  much  stir 
amongst  the  people;  1848  was  over,  but  the  Charter 
and  the  Five  Points  were  still  debated.  The  masses 
were  seething,  struggling  for  more  education,  more 
freedom.  In  France  Lacordaire  preached  the  Gospel, 
and  with  it  the  benefit  of  the  poor.  The  Abbe 
Lamennais  had  made  a  social  tract  of  some  of  the 
words  of  the  Saviour,  and  called  it,  I  believe,  '*  The 
Gospel  of  Freedom,"  and  on  the  walls  of  the 
"  institooshun  "  hung  two  remarkable  portraits  ;  one 
was  Eugene  Sue,  then  well  known  for  his  socialist 
novels,  the  other  was  Charles  Kingsley,  M.A.,  author 
of  Alton  Locke. 

Eugene  Sue  was  a    man   of  some  forty-five  years. 


4  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

and  unmistakably  a  Frenchman,  although  utterly 
different  from  the  old  Frenchman  of  the  haute  noblesse^ 
and  equally  so  from  the  modern  production.  Charles 
Kingsley  was  as  thoroughly  English  as  Eugene  Sue 
was  French.  A  high,  noble  forehead,  large,  earnest, 
deep-set  eyes  (which  the  lithograph  had  hollowed  as 
if  with  thought  and  work),  a  firm,  close-shut  mouth 
and  powerful  jaw  ;  here  was  a  poet  as  well  as  a  parson, 
a  fighter  as  well  as  a  writer,  a  leader  as  well  as  a 
priest ;  earnest,  glowing,  true-hearted  eyes  shone 
out  from  beneath  the  forehead,  and  seemed  to  speak 
openly  to  whomsoever  listened  :  "  Come,  let  us  work 
together  for  the  good  of  mankind." 

At  the  time  the  portraits  hung  there  the  institution 
did  not  pay.  The  typical  working-man,  who  wanted 
to  learn  Latin  and  mathematics,  soon  rose  to  be  more 
than  a  working-man,  and  the  loafer  always  remained 
a  loafer,  and  always  will.  The  young  author,  who 
gave  his  hard-earned  leisure  to  teach  them,  soon  found 
this  out,  and  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  the 
typical  working-man,  like  all  good  and  great  men, 
is  somewhat  of  a  rare  bird,  and  also  that  the  young 
men  of  the  day  would  rather  play  croquet  with  the 
girl  of  the  period,  or  even  dress  in  "  drag,"  play  at 
an  amateur  theatre,  burn  statues  in  a  college  quadrangle, 
or  listen  to  the  Christy  Minstrels,  than  teach  the 
typical  working-man. 

The  neighbourhood  round  Clerkenwell  and  Bagnigge 
Wells  Road  was  not  very  charming  even  in  those  days. 


The   Effect   of  Persuasion  5 

though  it  was  more  rural  than  now.  Mr.  Hain 
Friswell,  in  his  philanthropic  labours,  used  to  frequent 
some  very  low  courts  and  alleys,  and  his  courage  and 
coolness  often  stood  him  in  good  stead.  One  evening 
as  he  was  going  down  Saffron  Hill,  a  very  low  neigh- 
bourhood, a  policeman  called  upon  him  to  assist  him 
in  the  capture  of  a  man  who  was  "  wanted,"  and  who 
had  hidden  himself  in  a  house  down  a  court,  where 
the  inhabitants  were  in  a  state  of  revolt  against  the 
law  entering  in  person.  The  young  author  followed 
the  policeman  into  the  court.  They  were  hooted  and 
yelled  at  and  pelted  with  cabbage  stumps  and  brickbats. 
Hot  water  was  thrown  over  them  from  the  houses, 
but  they  stood  their  ground,  and  the  young  author 
addressed  the  people,  and  so  worked  upon  their  feelings 
that  they  not  only  left  off  insulting  them,  but  the 
man  came  down  and  gave  himself  up. 

There  are  parts  of  London  now  so  squalid  that 
it  seems  a  wonder  that  they  were  ever  any  different, 
and  yet  not  so  many  years  ago  they  were  inhabited 
by  well-to-do  merchants  and  gentry,  who  kept  their 
carriages  ;  this  is  the  case  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Holborn  and  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  In  Lincoln's  Inn 
and  some  of  the  adjacent  streets  there  are  still  fine 
old  houses,  dating  back  to  the  time  of  Charles  II., 
and  in  one  of  these  my  maternal  grandfather  lived 
and  carried  on  his  business  as  an  engraver.  I  can 
just  remember  the  lofty  rooms,  high  carved  oak 
mantelshelves    and  deep    window   seats ;   the    staircase 


6  In  the   Sixties   and  Seventies 

was  very  fine  and  wide,  and  all  the  rooms  were  panelled, 
no  doubt  in  oak,  but  they  had  been   painted   various 
colours.     The   drawing-room    was    on    the    first  floor, 
and   a  very   large  room,   painted   pale    green  ;  leading 
out  of  that    was    my   mother's   and  aunt's   studio,  its 
window  covered  up  till  there  was  only   a    top   light  ; 
the    fireplace    was    across    one    of   the  corners   of  the 
room,  and  near    it    stood   a    large    carved    oak    chair. 
I  fancy  1  can  see  sitting  in  that  chair  a  very  tiny  child, 
with  a  pale  face  and  a  quantity  of  pale  yellow   hair  ; 
she   is   named   Laura,  after  Laura  Bell,   in    Pendennis, 
one  of  Thackeray's  most  charming  heroines  ;  I  scarcely 
think  the  novelist  would  have  felt  complimented,  but, 
as  I  have  said,  the  child's  near  relations  were  enthusiastic 
young    people,    and    great    readers    and    admirers    of 
Thackeray   and    Dickens.     The    child    is  sucking    her 
thumb    and     watching    with    great    gravity    her    aunt 
paint  some  gleaming  fish  which  are  lying  upon  some 
rushes  ;    presently   she    falls  asleep  ;  a   bell  rings,   and 
she  wakes   with  a   start,    to   find   herself  alone  in  the 
room — that   dreadful  person   the  lay  figure  staring  at 
her,    and  the  plaster  casts    of  heads,  hands,  and  feet 
dancing    in   the    firelight  ;  the  Fiamingo  Boys,    which 
are  hung    from  the    ceiling,    really    seem   to  be  alive, 
and    the   one  she  has  for  a  dolly,  wrapped  up  in  an 
old  piece  of  silk,  lying  in  a  chair  at  her  side,  positively 
stares  at  her,  for  her  aunt  has  painted  its  face  till  it 
is  most   lifelike.     She   lifts    up    her    voice   and   weeps, 
then   the  door  flies  open,  and    her  father,  the    young 


Toddlekins   and  her  Father  7 

author  and  engraver,  hurries  in.  She  cannot  remember 
what  he  is  like,  but  she  knows  he  has  the  brightest, 
merriest  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair.  "  All  alone  ! — poor 
little  Toddlekins,"  he  says,  and  he  catches  her  up, 
Fiamingo  Boy  and  all,  and  bears  her  off  downstairs. 

It  is  difficult  to  realise  at  this  space  of  time  that  I 
and  that  child  are  the  same  ;  but  it  is  always  so.  We 
look  back  to  our  childhood,  or  youth,  and  the  child  or 
young  girl  seems  to  be  some  one  else,  some  one  we  have 
seen  and  known  ;  and  so  I  can  remember  Toddlekins. 
I  know  she  sat  at  tea  on  a  very  prickly  horse-hair 
chair  ;  I  know  she  moved  restlessly,  and  that  the  heavy 
doll,  in  spite  of  her  frantic  clutches  at  it,  rolled  down 
upon  the  floor,  and  off  came  its  head.  She  wept  long 
and  loudly  and  was  quite  inconsolable,  while  her  grand- 
father and  grandmother  scolded  her  aunt  for  having 
given  her  such  a  plaything  as  an  expensive  plaster  cast. 

It  is  dim  remembrances,  such  as  these,  which  seem 
like  dreams,  that  made  me,  many  years  afterwards, 
when  I  read  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  associate  it  with 
my  grandfather's  house.  It  was  a  beautiful  old  house, 
not  a  bit  like  the  real  Curiosity  Shop,  as  I  know  now  ; 
but  then  I  had  not  seen  the  little,  dirty,  shabby  old 
house  which  is  said  to  be  the  original  of  Dickens's 
story.  My  grandfather  was  a  collector  of  pictures, 
china,  silver,  and  everything  that  was  valuable,  and  the 
old  and  curious  things  that  filled  the  house  must  have 
influenced  me,  for  to  this  day  I  always  think  of  it  as 
"  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop." 


8  In  the  Sixties  and  Seventies 

But  I  see  another  picture  of  little  Toddlekins  in  her 
own  home,  that  small  house  in  Pentonville.  It  is  tea- 
time,  and  the  fire  and  lamp-light  shining  on  crimson 
walls  and  table-cover  make  a  pleasant  picture.  There 
were  no  five  o'clock  tea-cloths  in  those  days,  and  the 
wooden  or  Japanese  tea-tray  had  not  become  fashion- 
able, so  the  tray  was  of  enamelled  iron — it  is  chocolate 
and  gold,  and  has  a  very  flat  and  elaborate  edge.  The 
pattern  consists  of  scrolls  and  leaves  in  gold — there 
is  no  crude  landscape  to  set  your  teeth  on  edge,  as 
I  have  seen  on  some  trays  of  that  period.  A  young 
and  pretty  woman,  with  her  hair  done  in  curls  something 
like  Thackeray's  Amelia,  sits  in  front  of  the  tray,  and 
close  to  her  is  her  husband,  who  has  said  good-bye  to 
his  books  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  is  listening  to  his  little 
son,  whom  he  calls  "  the  Philosopher  Dick  "  ;  to  quote 
my  father  :  "  Dick  has  made  a  wonderful  machine  out 
of  three  pieces  of  firewood,  an  old  pill-box,  a  wheel 
from  the  bottom  of  a  wooden  horse,  a  cotton  reel, 
and  some  twine.  Dick  is  always  making  machines  of 
a  most  useless  and  absurd  character,  but  he  is  pleased 
and  busy  ;  he  proposes  to  fill  the  pill-box  with  water, 
for  some  impossible  project,  which  will  end  in  soaking 
his  pinafore  ;  happy  Dick  !  there  are  some  machinists 
in  the  world  whose  projectures  are  quite  as  absurd." 

And  here  is  a  description  of  Toddlekins  :  "  I  turn 
from  Dick  to  Toddlekins,  who  has  been,  with  a  face 
as  grave  as  that  of  the  Lady  Mayoress  at  a  ministerial 
feast,  receiving  company  for  the  last  half-hour.     She  is 


An  Author^s   Household  9 

bright-eyed,  with  a  fair  face,  and  such  a  white  and  red 
skin  as  no  lady  in  the  land,  not  even  Phyllis  at  eighteen, 
can  boast  ;  like  Fielding's  Amelia  she  has  the  prettiest 
nose   in   the  world,  but,  unlike  that   heroine,  she  has 
not   yet   broken   it.      She   is  receiving  company  ;    the 
latter  consists  of  a  very  wooden  Dutch  doll,  a  wax- 
faced  ditto,  Mr.  Noah  of  the  Ark,  an   elephant  who 
has  left  his  trunk  behind  him,  a  papier  mache  donkey, 
who  in  his  youth  used  to  wag  what  he  has  lost — his 
head — and  a  miserable  kitten  which  has  not  spirit  to 
run  away.     The    company   sit    round  Toddlekins  and 
her  tea-tray,  and  she  now  pours  out  a  curious  mixture 
of  weak  tea,  milk,  and  dirt.     The  Dutch  doll,  an  ugly 
brute  with  a  face  as  flat  as  that  of  a  clock,  without 
a  nose,  and  with  no  hair  on  its  head,  is  the  favourite. 
Why   is  it  so  } — I    do   not   know.      I    hate   it   myself. 
It    nearly  threw  me   downstairs   once.       It's  not    half 
so  handsome   as  the   wax  doll,   nor  on   the  whole  so 
lively  as  Noah,  nor  so   curious  as  the  elephant  ;    yet 
she    loves   it,  she    bows   down   to   it  and  worships   it, 
and  sets  it  in  the  place  of  honour,  gives  it  the   best 
things — it  has  the  cofi^ee-pot  with    the  wooden  spout 
to  drink  tea  from — and  favours  it  in  a  thousand  odd 
ways,   the    stupid   wooden  thing !     Why   does  she  do 
so  1     But,  ah    me  !   why  do    I  and   you,   reader,   bow 
down    to    our    Dutch    dolls  }       We    have    some    very 
wooden  ones  in  the  great  world,  and  give  them  more 
valuable  things  than  toy  coffee-pots  to  play  with. 
"  What  does  little  Toddlekins  do  after  }     A  wiser 


lo  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

head  than  mine  hath  observed  the  ways  of  such  people, 
and  tells  us  of  a  certain  '  four  years  darling  of  a 
pigmy  size,'  like  Toddlekins,  who  goes  through  the 
old,  old  games  of  life  : 

"  A  wedding,  or  a  festival, 
A  mourning,  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  speech  : 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife, 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part. 


CHAPTER    II 

TODDLEKINS  AND  GEORGE  CRUIKSHANK — CRUIKSHANK'S  GREAT 
PICTURE,  "THE  WORSHIP  OF  BACCHUS" — CRUIKSHANK  AND  TEMPER- 
ANCE— THE  CHEVALIER  AND  MADAME  DE  CHATELAIN — ANDREW 
HALLIDAY   AND   TODDLEKINS — THE   BROUGHS. 

THE  quotation  in  the  last  chapter  is  from  Other 
People  s  Windows,  a  very  well  known  book 
of  my  father's,  published  by  Messrs.  Sampson  Low 
&  Co.  in  1868.  I  have  abstracted  this  little  piece  of 
the  sketch,  as  it  gives  a  very  lifelike,  and,  I  think, 
pretty  picture  of  the  young  author's  home. 

Again  the  scene  shifts.  It  is  summer-time,  and 
I  see  little  Toddlekins  running  to  meet  and  throw 
her  arms  round  an  old  gentleman,  who  picks  her  up 
and  carries  her  into  the  house,  while  she  hugs  him  and 
rubs  her  face  against  his.  When  they  reach  the 
drawing-room  he  sets  her  down,  and  she,  rifling  his 
pockets,  pulls  out  a  book — no  less  than  Cinderella^ 
beautifully  illustrated  by  George  Cruikshank.  But 
Toddlekins  is  a  very  ignorant  young  lady — she  can't 
read,  and  so,  after  placing  the  book  upon  a  chair  and 
her  thumb  in  her  mouth,  she  studies  the  pictures 
with  the  utmost  interest  and  gravity. 

Her  father,    mother,  and   Mr.  Cruikshank  talk  for 


12  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

a  long  time,  and  Toddlekins  is  as  quiet  as  a  mouse  ; 
but  when  there  is  a  lull  in  the  conversation  she  looks 
round,  and  the  artist  smiles  at  her.  That  is  enough  ; 
she  says  nothing,  but,  pulling  her  thumb  out  of  her 
mouth  with  a  plop,  she  takes  the  book  and  climbs 
upon  his  knee,  where  she  nestles  against  him,  and  he 
reads,  or  rather  tells  her,  that  wonderful  story  that 
no  child  ever  grows  tired  of ;  at  least  Toddlekins 
does  not,  for  she  sucks  her  thumb  and  looks  alter- 
nately at  the  pictures  and  the  narrator  with  her  bright, 
dark  blue  eyes,  and  says,  "Say  it  again,  again"; 
or  she  corrects  him  if  he  deviates  one  tittle  from  what 
he  has  told  her  on  former  occasions  ;  and  George 
Cruikshank  smilingly  complies  with  her  imperious 
demands,  and  interprets  his  beautiful  illustrations  and 
looks  as  happy  and  as  pleased  as  the  little  child  he 
is  nursing. 

Toddlekins  was  a  privileged  person,  had  she  but 
known  it,  for  in  this  way  she  had  Cinderella^ 
Hop-o  -my-Thumb,  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk^  and  many 
other  fairy  tales  told  her  by  that  prince  of  illustrators. 
She  was  a  glutton  as  far  as  fairy  literature  was  con- 
cerned, and  she  was  as  charmed  with  George 
Cruikshank's  illustrations  as  persons  four  times  her 
age  were.  As  to  him,  he  loved  his  little  listener, 
and  would  have  her  come  and  see  his  big  picture. 
So  Toddlekins  went  one  fine  Sunday  morning  with 
her  father.  She  remembers  that  walk  very  well,  and 
how  smart  she  was  in  her  bottle-green  coat — they  called 


George  Cruikshank  13 

them  pelisses  then — and  her  drawn  satin  bonnet  with 
its  green  rosettes.  She  remembers  too  how  tightly 
her  father  held  her  hand,  and  how  she  seemed  to  trip 
up  every  now  and  then  in  the  very  paving  stones, 
so  that  she  swung  ofF  her  feet  right  round  in  front 
of  her  father  and  clutched  at  his  coat  to  save  herself. 
This  was  such  a  very  uncomfortable  way  of  proceeding 
that  her  father  told  her  to  lift  up  her  feet  and  to  walk 
on  her  toes  and  her  heels,  and  the  Philosopher  had 
to  put  it  in  practice  to  show  her  how  ;  and  so  they 
at  last  came  to  George  Cruikshank's  house. 

There  Toddlekins  was  so  amazed  and  rapt  with 
what  she  saw  that  she  was  dumb.  For  many  years 
that  picture  haunted  her.  She  often  dreamt  about  it, 
till  at  last  she  did  not  know  if  she  had  really  seen  it, 
or  if  it  was  only  in  a  dream.  But  it  was  no  dream, 
for  in  the  National  Gallery  can  be  seen  "  The  Worship 
of  Bacchus,"  the  picture  that  took  George  Cruikshank 
so  much  time  and  thought,  and  that  so  impressed 
Toddlekins  that  she  stood  in  front  of  it  and  sucked 
her  thumb  ;  nor  would  she  be  beguiled  from  it  by  any 
offers  of  cake  which   Mrs.  Cruikshank  brought  her. 

She  can  see  that  large  picture  now  ;  she  can  see 
Mrs.  Cruikshank  with  a  plate  of  cake,  trying  to  allure 
her  away  from  it  ;  and  she  can  hear  the  artist's  jolly 
voice  as  he  says  : 

"  There's  one  of  the  British  Public  who  appreciates 
it,  at  any  rate." 

Many  times  in  after  years  she  tried  to  describe  that 


14  In  the  Sixties  and  Seventies 

picture,  and  ask  her  mother  or  father  if  there  was  such 
a  one  ;  but  children  then  were  more  in  awe  of  their 
elders,  and  Toddlekins  knew  not  how  to  describe  it. 
A  man  crowned  with  grapes  and  sitting  on  a  tub, 
was  her  most  distinct  memory  ;  but  it  was  long  after 
George  Cruikshank  had  ceased  to  nurse  her  or  to  tell 
her  stories,  long  after  she  had  given  up  dolls,  that  she 
saw  that  picture  again  in  the  National  Gallery,  and  heard 
the  story  of  her  visit  to  George  Cruikshank's  studio. 

Mr.  Cruikshank  was  at  this  time  much  interested  in 
the  Temperance  movement,  and  a  great  advocate  for 
putting  down  the  liquor  traffic.  He  was  very  anxious 
for  my  father  to  write  a  temperance  drama,  which  I 
do  not  think  my  father  quite  saw  his  way  to  doing  ; 
though  he  knew  many  actors,  and  could  no  doubt  have 
got  a  play  placed.  Phelps  and  Marston  were  at  this 
time  at  the  height  of  their  fame,  but  it  is  doubtful  if 
either  of  them  would  have  taken  a  temperance  drama. 
Zola's  Drink  would  have  suited  Cruikshank 
admirably,  for  there  cannot  be  a  stronger  sermon 
preached  in  favour  of  teetotalism  than  U Assommoir ; 
but  Zola  was  in  his  cradle,  or  at  least  in  the  nursery, 
when  Cruikshank  was  writing  against  drink,  and  trying 
to  instil  temperance  into  the  minds  of  children  by 
altering  the  ends  of  the  old  fairy  tales.  As  most  of 
us  no  doubt  remember,  these  old  stories  are  anything 
but  temperance  tracts.  They  end  with  the  wedding 
of  the  hero  and  heroine,  at  whose  marriage  feast  there 
is  always  a   great    deal   of  drinking.     "  Fountains    of 


Cruikshank  and  Temperance  15 

wine  ran  in  the  streets,"  is  a  favourite  sentence  ;  but 
Mr.  Cruikshank  considered  this  so  "  useless  and  unfit 
for  children,"  that,  as  in  the  case  of  Cinderella^  he  re- 
wrote the  whole  story,  and,  to  quote  his  own  words, 
"  introduced  a  ^qw  temperance  truths,  with  a  fervent 
hope  that  some  good  may  result  therefrom." 

Critics  seem  to  have  taken  exception  to  these  altera- 
tions, for  Mr.  Cruikshank  addresses  the  public  at  the 
end  of  Cinderella,  and  advises  his  critics  to  make  them- 
selves better  acquainted  with  the  various  versions  of 
the  old  stories  before  they  find  fault  with  his. 

I  know  now  that  my  father  did  not  agree  with 
teetotalism,  and  no  doubt  he  and  George  Cruikshank 
had  many  an  argument  on  the  subject  ;  some  of  these 
things  may  have  reached  childish  ears  ;  this  I  cannot 
say,  but  I  know  Toddlekins  began  to  think  that 
bottles  of  wine  thrown  into  the  streets,  casks  of  beer 
smashed  so  that  the  liquor  ran  down  the  gutters,  was 
something  that  should  not  happen  ;  she  considered 
that  the  King  and  Queen  in  Cinderella  who  gave 
orders  that  all  the  wine,  beer,  and  spirits  in  the  place 
should  be  coUecteci  together  and  piled  upon  the  top 
of  a  rocky  mound  near  the  palace,  and  made  a  great 
bonfire  of  on  the  night  of  the  wedding,  "  which  was 
accordingly  done,  and  a  splendid  blaze  it  made  !  " 
were  wrong  ;  and  one  day,  after  due  deliberation,  no 
doubt,  she  broke  through  her  golden  rule  of  silence, 
and  taking  her  thumb  from  her  mouth,  she  looked 
up  into  the  great  illustrator's  face  and  said  solemnly  : 


1 6  In   the  Sixties  and   Seventies 

"  Naughty  King — waste  nice  wine''' 

Cruikshank  looked  at  her  in  comic  consternation  ; 
her  father  laughed. 

"  You  see  how  difficult  it  is,"  he  said  ;  "  Toddlekins 
at  any  rate  should  be  a  disciple." 

"  And  she's  one  of  the  unregenerate,"  sighed 
Cruikshank,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

There  is  yet  another  picture  I  can  recall  of  this 
time.  It  is  a  bright,  sunny  Sunday  afternoon,  and 
Toddlekins,  in  her  green  pelisse  and  drawn  satin 
bonnet,  with  its  rosettes  of  narrow  baby  ribbon  to 
match,  is  again  out  with  her  father  and  the  Philosopher. 
This  time  they  are  bending  their  steps  to  Warwick 
Terrace,  Regent's  Park,  to  call  upon  the  Chevalier 
and  Madame  de  Chatelain. 

The  Chevalier  de  Chatelain,  a  Parisian  by  birth 
and  a  staunch  Republican,  came  to  England  a  very 
young  man  and  started  a  French  weekly  paper,  called 
Le  Petit  Mercure,  afterwards  changing  the  name  to 
Le  Mercure  de  Londres.  He  was  an  industrious  writer 
and  a  great  pedestrian  ;  in  1827  it  is  recorded 
he  walked  from  Paris  to  Rome,  to  study  the  sayings 
and  doings  of  Pope  Leo  XII.  In  1830  he  was  at 
Bordeaux,  editing  Le  Propagateur  a  la  Gironde^  an 
employment  which  led  to  his  being  condemned  to 
six  months'  imprisonment,  and  to  having  to  pay  a 
fine  of  1,320  francs.  He  published  many  works  in 
Paris,  one  being  a  translation  into  French  of  Chaucer's 
Canterbury     Tales ^    and    he    was    invested    with    the 


The   de   Chatelains  17 

Prussian  Order  of  Civil  Merit.  He  returned  to 
England  in  1 842  and  was  naturalised  a  few  years 
afterwards  ;  he  resided  in  London  for  nearly  forty 
years,  during  which  time  he  published  fifty  works. 
The  best  known  are  Beautes  de  la  Poesie  Anglaise^ 
being  translations  of  over  one  thousand  pieces,  from 
Chaucer  to  Tennyson  ;  and  Ronces  et  Char  dons,  in 
which  he  denounces  Napoleon  under  the  title  of 
"  Chenapan  III." 

In  London  his  wife  was  perhaps  the  better  known 
in  literary  circles.  She  was  the  daughter  of  M.  de 
Pontigny,  a  descendant  of  Count  Pontigny.  She 
was  born  in  England,  her  mother  being  an  English- 
woman. While  residing  in  France  in  1826,  she 
published  an  elegy  on  the  death  of  the  famous  painter 
David.  This  was  her  first  literary  effort,  and  it 
attracted  so  much  notice  that  she  then  wrote  in  rapid 
succession,  under  various  pseudonyms,  stories,  poems, 
and  music,  in  both  the  French  and  English  languages. 
Leopold  Wray,  Rosalie  Santa  Crore,  Baronne  Cornelie 
de  B.,  etc.,  were  some  of  her  pen-names.  She  was 
connected  with  The  Queen,  London  Society,  Reynolds' 
Miscellany,  Chambers's  Journal,  he  Courier  de  r Europe, 
and  in  fact  with  most  of  the  periodicals  of  that  time. 
She  married  the  Chevalier  in  1842,  and  there  could 
not  have  been  a  more  united  couple.  They  were 
devoted  to  each  other  ;  so  much  so  that  Harrison 
Ainsworth  persuaded  them  to  try  for  the  Dunmow 
flitch  of  bacon — an  honour  only  conferred  on  a  model 

2 


1 8  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

couple.  It  was  awarded  them,  and  Ainsworth  had  the 
pleasure  of  presenting  it  to  Madame  de  Chatelain. 
On  this  occasion  Madame  is  said  to  have  stated  that 
she  and  her  husband  had  never  had  the  least  dis- 
agreement for  twelve  years.  They  knew  many  literary 
people,  and  were  intimate  friends  of  Victor  Hugo  and 
his  family. 

I  have  given  this  brief  history  of  this  remarkable 
couple  because  people's  memories  are  so  short  now 
that  they  cannot  look  back  more  than  twenty  years, 
or  scarcely  that,  and  therefore  to  the  majority,  ex- 
cepting for  a  few  big  names,  the  literary  people  of 
the  last  century  might  not  have  existed.  And  yet 
there  were  far  more  honest,  if  not  cleverer,  workers 
then,  than  the  revelations  of  "  literary  ghosts  "  would 
lead  us  to  believe  is  the  case  in  these  enlightened 
times. 

But  "  little  Toddlekins "  knew  nothing  of  these 
things  ;  she  was  yet  to  awake  to  the  tragedy,  comedy, 
and  pathos  of  life.  She  only  saw  the  charming,  sunny 
room,  the  handsome  old  man  and  his  pretty,  merry 
wife,  and  she  made  a  curtsey  to  them  as  much 
like  the  one  Cinderella  was  making  to  the  prince  in 
George  Cruikshank's  picture  as  she  could.  Madame 
de  Chatelain  was  enchanted. 

"  Ah,  c'est  tres  joHe  !  "  she  cried.  "  The  petite, 
the  funny,  funny  mite  !  "  and  she  snatched  up  Toddle- 
kins and  kissed  her. 

Now  this  was  not  at  all  what  that  dignified  young 


The   Chevalier   de   Chatelain  19 

person  expected  ;  she  was  not  fond  of  being  kissed. 
So  when  Madame  sat  down  in  a  chair  with  her 
upon  her  knee,  she  shook  her  shoulders  and  frowned, 
at  which  Madame  laughed.  Toddlekins  glanced  re- 
proachfully at  her,  and  she  would  have  struggled  out 
of  her  lap,  only  she  was  absorbed  in  admiration  of 
the  Chevalier.  She  had  never  seen  anything  like  him 
out  of  a  picture.  She  can  remember  the  grand  figure 
he  made  in  his  long  coat  and  curly  brimmed  hat, 
holding  his  gloves  and  gold-headed  cane  in  one  hand. 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed  gravely  to  Toddlekins, 
and  she  then  noticed  his  beautiful  white  hair,  upon 
which  the  sun  shone.  That  picture  never  faded  from 
her  memory,  but  it  was  long  afterwards,  when  Toddle- 
kins was  Httle  no  longer,  and  went  to  see  some  pictures 
with  her  mother,  that  she  knew  the  Chevalier  was 
like  a  Rembrandt.  The  little  girl  would  have  liked 
to  suck  her  thumb  and  stare  at  the  Chevalier  for  an 
hour  ;  but  there  were  two  reasons  why  she  could 
not  :  first,  she  had  gloves  on  ;  and  secondly,  Madame 
was  talking  to  her.  So  Toddlekins  turned  her 
attention  to  Madame,  and,  with  the  assistance  of 
the  Philosopher,  she  managed  to  let  Madame  know 
how  old  she  was,  and  what  her  real  name  was  ;  then 
she  launched  into  a  rambling  account  of  her  favourite 
heroine  Cinderella,  which  interested  Madame  greatly. 

Now  it  was  a  subject  that  rather  sickened  the 
Philosopher  ;  he  had  heard  it  so  often.  So  he  politely 
turned  his  back  upon    them   and    devoted  himself  to 


20  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

eating  cake,  which  a  servant  had  brought  with  the  tea, 
and  in  wandering  round  the  room  examining  everything. 
Toddlekins  admired  the  Philosopher  immensely,  and 
often  opened  her  eyes  with  wonder  at  the  things  he 
saw  and  knew — they  were  quite  beyond  her  comprehen- 
sion ;  but  then,  as  the  Philosopher  continually  told  her, 
"  she  was  only  a  girl "  ;  and  girls  were  not  thought  so 
much  of  in  those  days  as  they  are  now — not  even  by 
philosophers, 

Cinderella  being  exhausted,  Madame  de  Chatelain 
admired  the  little  girl's  bonnet.  Toddlekins  agreed 
that  it  was  "  very,  very  pretty,"  but  she  said  con- 
fidentially, and  pointing  to  the  green  rosettes  upon 
it  : 

"  These  are  not  cabbages,  though  my  grandfather 
says  they  are." 

"  Cabbages  } "  said  Madame,  puzzled,  as  well  she 
might  be,  for  anything  more  unhke  cabbages  than 
those  green  rosettes  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine. 
Toddlekins  thought  she  did  not  understand,  so  she 
repeated  very  distinctly,  "  Cab-ba-ges  !  "  and  she 
nodded  her  head  at  each  syllable,  though  she  could  not 
have  spelt  "  cabbage "  to  save  her  life.  Madame 
laughed  and  said  : 

"  Ah  !   the  funny  mite  !  " 

"  They  are  not  cabbages,"  said  Toddlekins  in  her 
shrillest  voice. 

Madame  still  laughed,  and  the  Philosopher  came 
to    the    rescue.     Now    he    knew  the   Chevalier  was   a 


Madame   de   Chatelain  21 

foreigner,  and  he  was  not  at  all  sure  about  Madame, 
for,  if  she  wasn't  French,  she  spoke  that  language 
mixed  up  with  English,  and  when  people  do  these 
things  it  is  very  difficult  for  very  young  philosophers 
to  judge.  So  he  took  it  for  granted  that  Madame  was 
a  foreigner,  and,  as  English  people  generally  shout  at 
those  who  cannot  understand  them,  he  went  up  to 
Madame  and  said  in  a  loud  voice  : 

"  Cab-ba-ges  !  Vegetables  !  Things  you  have  for 
dinner  !     Greens,  you  know  !  " 

Madame  quite  understood,  but  the  scene  was  so 
funny  she  could  only  laugh.  The  Philosopher  went  on 
to  explain  very  earnestly  that  his  grandfather  "  did  not 
really  think  the  rosettes  like  cabbages,  but  only  said  so 
to  tease  Toddlekins."  The  little  girl  listened  with 
pride  to  the  Philosopher's  explanation  ;  no  one  could 
mistake  what  Dick  said,  she  thought.  But  Madame 
appeared  as  puzzled  as  ever  ;  she  still  laughed.  Toddle- 
kins was  distressed  ;  the  Philosopher  determined. 

"  Things  you  eat — greens^  you  know.  Oh  !  you 
must  have  them  in  your  country,"  he  said,  his  eyes 
gleaming  with  intelligence  and  his  face  red  with 
earnestness,     "  Oh,  what  are  cabbages  in  French  } " 

He  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  for  inspiration,  and 
Toddlekins  looked  up  also  ;  Madame  laughed  and 
laughed,  and  the  gentlemen,  attracted  by  the  loud 
talking,  left  off  their  conversation  and  asked  what 
was  the  matter.  Madame's  pretty  face  was  flushed 
and    her  bright  eyes  were    dancing  with    mirth  •    the 


22  In  the  Sixties  and   Seventies 

Philosopher  was  frowning  at  the  ceihng,  and  Toddlekins 
was  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands,  her  eyes  were 
very  bright  and  her  mouth  was  going  down  at  the 
corners  ;  her  father  knew  she  was  nervous  and  about 
to  cry.  Madame  spoke  rapidly  in  French,  and  ended 
with  what  Toddlekins  took  for  shoe. 

"  Not  shoes  !  "  she  cried.      "  Cab-ba-ges  !  " 

At  that  every  one  but  the  Philosopher  laughed,  and 
Toddlekins  was  so  disgusted  she  burst  out  crying. 

"  Oh,  cest  pauvre^  the  poor  little  thing,  there, 
there,"  cried  Madame,  grave  at  once  ;  and  she  hugged 
Toddlekins  and  kissed  her,  and  wiped  her  eyes,  and 
asked  her  who  bought  her  those  pretty  new  shoes. 
And  then  she  wanted  to  know  if  the  little  girl  had 
heard  about  "  Little  Goody  Two  Shoes."  Toddlekins 
had  not ;  and  as  Madame  had  edited  a  book  called 
Merry  Tales  for  Little  Folky  in  which  the  story 
of  "  Goody  Two  Shoes "  and  many  other  veracious 
histories  were  written,  she  gave  it  to  Toddlekins  and 
the  Philosopher. 

The  fairy-worshipper  went  out  into  the  street  with 
the  book  hugged  close  to  her,  a  proud  and  happy 
child.  It  was  rather  thick  and  heavy  for  such  a  small 
person,  but  Toddlekins  would  not  let  the  Philosopher 
have  it  ;  not  that  he  wanted  it,  for,  as  he  explained 
to  her  as  soon  as  they  were  outside  the  house,  "  He 
knew  all  he  wanted  to  know  of  those  sort  of  things." 
The  Philosopher  was  annoyed  because  he  had  not 
remembered    the    French    for    cabbage  ;  and    then    he 


Andrew   Halliday  23 

had    been    laughed  at,  and  even  philosophers  are  not 
invulnerable  to  ridicule. 

I  have  been  told  by  many  people  that  Toddlekins 
was  a  most  charming  little  child,  that  "  her  laugh 
was  so  musical  and  infectious  that  it  made  every  one 
smile."  Now  this  is  very  pretty  and  pleasant  to  hear, 
but  we  all  know  what  these  charming  children  are 
said  to  grow  up,  so  one  can  scarcely  take  it  as  a 
compliment  ;  and  then  one  must  remember  all  the 
clever  people,  young  and  old,  who  petted  and  amused 
her,  and  whose  artistic  natures  no  doubt  idealised  her. 
She  had  dolls  by  the  score  ;  and  had  she  collected  them, 
instead  of  giving  in  to  the  Philosopher's  persuasive 
powers,  and  allowing  him  to  hang  them  for  political 
offences  from  the  balusters,  whence  they  had  a  drop 
of  twelve  or  fourteen  feet,  and  lay  smashed  at  her 
feet  (when  she  would  weep  bitterly,  or  fly  at  him 
like  a  tigress  for  having  "  made  them  dead  "),  she 
could  have  had  quite  a  museum  of  well-known  names. 
The  Cruikshank  doll,  the  Phelps  and  Marston  dolls, 
the  Brough,  the  Andrew  Halliday,  and  so  on. 

But  I  am  sorry  to  record  that  she  was  not  always 
amiable  ;  she  was  not  strong,  and  she  was  very  nervous 
and  shy.  George  Cruikshank  remained  her  favourite  ; 
only  one  other  well-known  man  was  she  at  this  time 
friendly   with,  and   that   was   Andrew   Halliday. 

My  mother  tells  a  story  of  his  first  visit,  and  of 
how  Toddlekins,  instead  of  hiding  in  a  corner,  came 
and  stood  by  his  knee  and  looked  in  his  face,  and  even 


24  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

allowed  him  to  nurse  her.  When  he  went  her  mother 
asked  : 

"  Did  you  like  that  gentleman  ?  " 

''  Yes,"  replied  Toddlekins. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  her  mother. 

"  He  had  such  pretty  eyes,"  said  the  unabashed 
child. 

William  and  Robert  Brough,  the  Greenwood 
brothers,  the  Vizetellys,  and  Charles  Henry  Bennett, 
who  was  then  illustrating  Charles  Kingsley's  edition 
of  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  were  frequent  visitors. 

The  way  these  men  lived  and  worked  would  be 
wondered,  if  not  sneered  at,  in  these  luxurious  days  ; 
we  have  grown  such  mammon-worshippers,  such  snobs. 
But,  though  I  can  scarcely  recall  any  of  their  faces,  I 
love  their  names — they  seem  like  old  and  dear  friends : 
and  I  like  to  look  into  The  Welcome  Guest,  The  Train^ 
Diogenes^  and  the  other  old  magazines  in  which  their 
writings  or  their  illustrations  used  to  appear.  My 
father  often  spoke  of  them  in  later  years,  and  always 
with  admiration  and  affection. 

My  father,  with  his  business  training  and  domestic 
habits,  was  never  a  real  Bohemian  ;  but  he  had  many 
Bohemian  friends,  and  had  become  initiated  into 
the  mysteries  of  "  British  Bohemia,"  which,  as  Mr. 
Yates  says,  "  is  our  equivalent  for  that  vie  de  Boheme 
which  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  despite  its 
poverty,  its  uncertainty,  and  in  many  cases  its  misery, 
had,  in  its  wild  and  picturesque   freedom  from    con- 


Bohemia  25 

ventionality,  sufficient  attraction  to  captivate  a  large 
section  of  the  young  men  of  Paris,"  the  unfortunate 
Henri  Murger  being  its  brilliant  historian. 

Bohemia  scarcely  exists  now  ;  indeed,  we  are  so 
fashionable  that  no  one  cares  to  hear  anything  about 
the  middle  classes  ;  almost  all  our  novels  deal  with  the 
doings  of  aristocrats  (or  rather  the  people  the  author 
considers  such),  and  the  denizens  of  the  slums.  In  a 
popular  novel  I  read  lately,  in  which  almost  all  the 
male  characters  are  members  of  the  Ministry,  the 
author  remarks  that  Fleet  Street  and  its  environment 
is  almost  an  unknown  quarter  !  Evidently  no  one 
living  so  far  West  as  Grosvenor  Square  is  supposed  to 
come  farther  East  than  Charing  Cross.  What  a 
narrow  sphere,  and  how  much  of  interest  they  must 
miss  ! 

Perhaps  only  a  woman  could  have  made  such  a 
remark  about  Fleet  Street  ;  and  I  should  say  that  she 
has  not  the  true  love  of  literature  and  literary  people, 
nor  can  she  be  an  Englishwoman,  or  she  would  not  have 
thought  it  possible  that  any  one  could  be  ignorant  of 
the  very  heart  of  London — indeed  of  England — where 
all  the  important  work  is  done.  The  denizens  of 
that  smart  club  at  Westminster  could  be  scattered 
to-morrow,  and  no  one  would  be  much  the  worse  ;  but 
our  citizens,  our  bankers,  editors,  lawyers,  and  all  those 
people  who  toil  all  day  in  that  far-off  and  unknown 
quarter  that  the  butterflies  of  fashion  scarcely  know 
exists,    we    should    indeed    feel    the    loss    of    bitterly, 


2  6  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

What,  too,  makes  the  remark  more  comic  is  that 
Grosvenor  Square  is  evidently  considered  the  centre 
of  the  world  of  fashion  ;  and  yet  now-a-days  "  that 
fickle  jade,  Fashion,"  is  passing  it  by  and  forgetting  it 
almost  as  completely  as  she  has  Russell  Square  and 
that  once  aristocratic  quarter,   Bloomsbury. 

In  the  days  of  which  I  am  writing  the  Strand  and 
Fleet  Street,  beloved  of  Dr.  Johnson,  Goldsmith, 
Hazlitt,  Charles  Lamb,  and  others,  were  sacred  places, 
as  I  believe  they  are  now  to  all  true  lovers  of  literature. 
My  father,  I  know,  looked  upon  them  as  such  and 
taught  me  to  do  the  same.  In  our  walks  he  would 
point  out  this  or  that  tavern,  frequented  by  Johnson 
or  Goldsmith  ;  I  was  taken  to  see  the  latter's  tomb 
in  the  Temple  as  if  it  were  a  sacred  shrine,  as  it  has 
always  been  to  me  since.  Then  there  was  the  house 
where  Charles  Lamb  lodged  in  Queen  Street,  Holborn ; 
the  one  in  Brooke  Street  where  Chatterton  poisoned 
himself,  and  hundreds  of  other  places  that  I  have  not 
space  to  mention.  But  all  that  part  of  London  east 
of  Charing  Cross  was  an  enchanted  land  to  me,  and 
is  so  still,  in  spite  of  its  being  so  "  improved  "  that  it 
is  almost  unrecognisable.  I  liked  old  Temple  Bar, 
and  I   detest  the  Griffin. 

The  Strand  and  Fleet  Street  were  in  the  very  heart 
of  Bohemia,  Bloomsbury  was  on  its  borders  ;  and  I 
have  always  been  sorry  that,  being  an  infant,  and  worse 
still,  a  girl  infant,  in  the  days  of  which  I  am  writing, 
I  could  not  know  that  happy  band  of  young,  gifted, 


Bohemia  27 

and  enthusiastic  workers.  I  have  heard  that  they  had 
a  thorough  contempt  for  the  ordinary  usages  of 
society,  and  they  carried  this  contempt  into  their  dress 
and  manners.  The  word  "  philistine  "  was  much  in 
vogue,  and  the  class  which  it  represented  was  of  course 
an  object  of  ridicule  and  contempt  to  the  Bohemians. 
My  father,  though  he  was  never  "  to  the  manner 
born,"  and  objected  to  their  irresponsible,  careless  ways, 
yet  mixed  freely  amongst  them,  and  made  some  life- 
long friendships. 

Thackeray,  in  his  last  novel,  quaintly  describes 
Bohemia  as  "  a  pleasant  land,  not  fenced  with  drab 
stucco  like  Belgravia,  or  Tyburnia  :  not  guarded  by  a 
large  standing  army  of  footmen  :  not  echoing  with 
noble  chariots,  not  replete  with  polite  chintz  drawing- 
rooms  and  neat  tea-tables  ;  a  land  over  which  hangs 
an  endless  fog,  occasioned  by  much  tobacco  :  a  land  of 
chambers,  billiard-rooms,  and  oyster  suppers :  a  land 
of  song  :  a  land  where  soda-water  flows  freely  in  the 
morning,  a  land  of  tin  dish-covers  from  taverns,  and 
foaming  porter  :  a  land  of  lotos  eating  (with  lots  of 
cayenne  pepper),  of  pulls  on  the  river,  of  delicious 
reading  of  novels,  magazines,  and  saunterings  in  many 
studios  :  a  land  where  all  men  call  each  other  by  their 
Christian  names,  where  most  are  poor,  where  almost 
all  are  young,  and  where,  if  a  few  oldsters  enter,  it  is 
because  they  have  preserved,  more  tenderly  and  care- 
fully than  others,  their  youthful  spirits,  and  the 
delightful  capacity  to  be  idle.     I  have  lost  my  way  to 


28  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

Bohemia,"  he  adds  with  tender  regret,  "  but  it  is 
certain  that  Prague  is  the  most  picturesque  city  in  the 
world." 

The  Broughs  and  the  Romers  were  perhaps  the 
greatest  Bohemians  we  knew.  My  mother  tells  a 
funny  story  of  Robert  Brough  coming  in  about  twelve 
o'clock  one  night,  and  sitting  and  talking  till  three  in 
the  morning,  when  she  made  him  up  a  bed.  The  next 
morning  he  borrowed  a  clean  collar,  and  invited  my 
father  and  mother  to  dinner  the  following  week  ;  but 
before  the  day  came  round  he  wrote  to  say  *'  they 
hadn't  even  a  tablecloth,  and  under  the  circumstances 
would  they  put  off  their  visit  ?  "  The  collar  was  never 
returned,  nor  a  fresh  invitation  given. 

I  have  heard  my  father  say  that,  in  spite  of  his 
Bohemianism,  "  every  one  loved  Robert  Brough  "  ; 
he  was  brilliantly  clever,  but  wholly  careless  of  his 
personal  appearance,  and  quite  different  from  his 
brothers  William  and  John  Cargill  Brough.  William 
was  neat  in  his  appearance,  and  methodical  in  manner, 
but  not  nearly  so  clever  as  "  Bob."  The  brothers 
Brough,  as  they  were  called,  were  the  sons  of  a 
commercial  man,  and  had  had  a  good  plain  English 
education,  on  which  they  raised  a  fair  superstructure 
of  learning.  Robert  was  a  Radical,  but  being  of  a 
gentle  nature,  and  in  every  true  sense  a  gentleman, 
he  did  not  emulate  the  literary  achievements  of  some 
of  the  rank  Republicans,  as  shown  in  the  Sunday  papers 
pf  that  time  ;  but  that  he  had  a  fierce  hatred  of  the 


Robert  Brough  29 

governing  classes  there  is  no  doubt,  for  he  brought 
out  a  little  book,  called  Songs  of  the  Governing  Classes. 
It  was  published  by  Vizetelly,  and  the  following  is 
a  specimen  of  its  polished  workmanship,  its  vigour 
of  thought  and  speech  : 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy's  the  son  of  an  Earl, 
His  hair  is  straight,  but  his  whiskers  curl ; 
His   Lordship's  forehead  is  far  from  wide, 
But  there's  plenty  of  room  for  the  brains  inside. 
He  writes  his  name  with  indifferent  ease. 
He's  rather  uncertain  about  the  "  d's  " — 
But  what  does  it  matter  if  three  or  one. 
To  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son? 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  to  college  went, 

Much  time  he  lost,  much  money  he  spent ; 

Rules,  and  windows,  and  heads  he  broke — 

Authorities  winked — young  men  will  joke! 

He  never  peep'd  inside  of  a  book — 

In  two  years'  time  a  degree  he  took  ; 

And  the  newspapers  vaunted  the  honours  won 

By  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son. 

***** 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  prefers  the  Guards, 

(The  House  is  a  bore)  so  !^ — it's  on  the  cards ! 

My  Lord's  a  Lieutenant  at  twenty-three, 

A  Captain  at  twenty-six  is  he — 

He  never  drew  sword,  except  on  drill ; 

The  tricks  of  parade  he  has  learnt  but  ill— 

A  full-blown  Colonel  at  thirty-one 

Ls  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son  ! 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  statements  in  this  poem  will  not  bear  analysis, 
and  are  to  a  certain  extent  uncalled  for  ;  but  that 
Robert  Brough  felt  them  there  is  no  doubt  ;  his 
poverty  and  ill-health,  and  the  knowledge  that  he 
had  the   power  to  produce  better  work  than    any    he 


30  In  the   Sixties  and   Seventies 

had  yet  published,  if  he  had  had  the  means  to  take 
life  more  easily,  no  doubt  caused  his  bitterness  against 
rank  and  wealth,  as  it  does  in  so  many  brilliant  men 
who  are  hampered  by  the  necessity  to  live. 

A  copy  of  his  little  book,  Songs  of  the  Governing 
Classes^  he  presented  to  my  mother,  and  signed  his 
name — Robert  B.  Brough — saying  as  he  wrote  it, 
*'  I  suppose  you  do  not  know  what  the  B.  stands  for  ? " 

My  mother  said  she  did  not. 

"  Barnabas,"  replied  Brough  ;  "  but  don't  tell  any- 
body— I  shall  deny  it  if  you  do." 


CHAPTER    III 

SUPPER-ROOMS — ROSS  THE  SINGER — "  EVANS'S  '' — A  PATHETIC  STORY — 
MY  VISIT  TO  "  EVANS'S  " — WE  SEE  THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES — PADDY 
GREEN. 

IN  those  days  the  most  popular  resorts  for  young 
men  who  hked  to  keep  late  hours  were  certain 
supper-rooms  and  singing  taverns.  The  most  noted 
were  situated  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Strand. 
My  father  was  not  a  frequenter  of  any  of  these  places, 
preferring  to  spend  his  evenings  at  home  writing, 
or,  as  I  have  said  in  the  first  chapter,  in  teaching 
working-men  in  an  institution  started  by  Mr.  Pass- 
more  Edwards  in  the  Gray's  Inn  Road  ;  but  he  some- 
times visited  "  The  Coal  Hole,"  "  The  Cider  Cellars," 
and  "  Evans's "  in  company  with  Albert  Smith  of 
"  Mont  Blanc  "  fame,*  who  was  then  living  in  Percy 
Street,  or  of  Godfrey  Turner,  a  clever  journalist 
who  afterwards  became  leader-writer  on  The  Daily 
Telegraph. 

Thackeray  seems  to  have  been  fond  of  immortalising 

*  Albert  Smith  had  ascended  Mont  Blanc,  in  those  days  a  rare 
feat ;  he  gave  an  account  of  this  ascent  in  a  monologue,  accompanied 
by  songs  and  characters,  and  splendidly  illustrated  views  by  William 
Beverley.  The  entertainment  was  given  at  the  Egyptian  Hall,  and 
was  popular  for  many  years. 

31 


32  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

these  places,  for  "  The  Back  Kitchen "  spoken  of 
in  Pendennis  is  said  to  be  "  The  Cider  Cellars,"  which 
was  in  Maiden  Lane,  almost  opposite  Rule's,  the 
celebrated  oyster  shop,  and  next  door  to  the  stage 
door  of  the  Adelphi  Theatre.  Albert  Smith,  in  his 
Adventures  of  Mr.  Ledbury^  speaks  of  "  The  Cider 
Cellars  "  by  name,  while  Thackeray  gives  the  following 
description  of  the  jolly  singing  suppers  at  '*  The 
Back  Kitchen  "  : 

"  Healthy  country  tradesmen,  and  farmers  in 
London  for  their  business,  came  and  recreated  them- 
selves .  .  .  squads  of  young  apprentices  and  assistants, 
the  shutters  being  closed  over  the  scene  of  their 
labours,  came  hither,  for  fresh  air  doubtless  ; — rakish 
young  medical  students,  gallant,  dashing,  what  is  called 
'  loudly '  dressed,  and  (must  it  be  owned  ?)  somewhat 
dirty,  were  here  smoking  and  drinking  and  vocifer- 
ously applauding  the  songs  ; — young  University  bucks 
were  to  be  found  here  too,  with  that  indescribable 
genteel  simper  which  is  only  learned  at  the  knees  of 
Alma  Mater  ;  and  handsome  young  guardsmen,  and 
florid  bucks  from  the  St.  James's  Street  Clubs  ; — nay, 
senators  English  and  Irish — and  even  members  of  the 
House  of  Peers." 

All  these  different  people  came  to  hear  a  singer 
whom  Thackeray  calls  Mr.  Hodgen,  whose  song,  called 
by  the  novelist  "The  Body  Snatcher,"  was  such  an 
immense  success  that  the  whole  town  rushed  to  listen 
to    it.       "  A    curtain    drew    aside,    and    Mr.    Hodgen 


Ross  the  Singer  33 

appeared  in  the  character  of  the  Snatcher,  sitting  on 
a  coffin,  with  a  flask  of  gin  before  him,  with  a  spade, 
and  a  candle  stuck  in  a  skull.  The  singer's  voice  went 
down  so  low  that  it  rumbled  into  the  hearer's  awe- 
stricken  soul,  and  in  the  chorus  he  clamped  with  his 
spade,  and  gave  a  demoniac  Ha  !  Ha  !  which  caused 
the  very  glasses  on  the  tables  to  quiver  as  with  terror." 

Now  this  singer's  real  name  was  Ross  ;  he  had 
a  very  line  bass  voice,  and  the  song  which  had  such 
an  enormous  success  was  called  "  Sam  Hall "  ;  it  was 
about  a  man  who  had  committed  a  murder,  and  who 
was  sentenced  to  be  hanged.  Mr.  Ross,  I  have  heard 
my  father  say,  made  up  with  a  ghastly  face,  and  sitting 
across  a  chair,  acted  in  a  most  realistic  manner  ;  there 
was  a  horrible  refrain  to  the  song,  and  the  whole  effect 
produced  was  most  tragic.  There  was  no  standing 
room  in  "  The  Cider  Cellars  "  while  "  Sam  Hall  "  was 
being  sung. 

The  singer  lived  next  door  to  my  father.  He  was 
a  good-looking,  jovial  man,  fond  of  his  wife  anti 
children,  but  of  a  somewhat  too  convivial  turn  of 
mind  ;  my  father  and  mother,  and  indeed  the  whole 
quiet  street,  were  not  unseldom  awakened  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning  by  a  hansom  dashing  up,  and 
Mr.  Ross's  fine  voice  trolling  out,  not  "  Sam  Hall," 
but  some  popular  and  sentimental  ditty.  Looking 
back  I  fancy  I  can  see,  walking  in  a  pretty  garden, 
accompanied  by  two  rosy-cheeked  little  girls,  a  tall, 
dark-whiskered,  red-faced   man,  whose  stentorian  voice 

3 


34  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

used  to  make  Toddlekins  stare  as  he  greeted  her 
nurse  with,  "  Well,  how  are  you,  my  own  Mary 
Ann  ? "  *  Mary  Ann  being  the  young  woman's  real 
name,   his  jokes  were   not  appreciated. 

Evans's  Supper-Rooms,  commonly  called  "Evans's," 
was  of  all  these  places  the  most  popular  and  the  most 
likely  to  be  remembered.  It  was  situated  at  the 
western  corner  of  the  Covent  Garden  piazza,  under- 
ground, an  hotel  being  above.  It  had  been  started 
by  a  man  named  Evans,  but  he  had  died,  and  when 
I  remember  it  it  was  run  by  a  little,  old,  round-about 
man  called  Paddy  Green,  who  was  a  very  worthy 
fellow,  and  quite  a  character  in  his  way.  It  was  a 
favourite  resort  of  Thackeray,  Douglas  Jerrold,  Serjeant 
Ballantyne,  Hannay,  and  most  of  the  well-known  men 
of  that  day.  Paddy  Green  used  to  go  round  and 
talk  to  all  and  sundry,  his  courteous  manner  and 
good  temper  charming  every  one.  Then  there  was  a 
curious  old  German  there,  named  Herr  von  Joel,  who 
used  to  sing  songs  with  a  joddling  refrain,  and  play 
on  a  curious  instrument  which  he  called  a  "  vokking 
shteek."  Thackeray  speaks  of  his  wonderful  whistling 
and  of  his  imitations  of  the  songs  of  birds.  My 
father  had  not  heard  him  in  his  prime,  but  he  was 
one  of  the  few  who  knew  that  the  old  man,  who 
wandered  about  the  room  selling  cigars,  had  been  a 
celebrity  in  his  day.  One  day,  in  passing  through 
Covent  Garden,  he  saw  him  sitting  under  the  piazza, 

*  "  My  own  Mary  Ann  " — a  popular  song  at  that  time. 


Herr   von  Joel  35 

on  a  wooden  chair  in  the  sun.  He  looked  very  feeble, 
almost  corpselike,  but  when  my  father  crossed 
and  spoke  to  him  he  found  him  in  a  terrible  state 
of  excitement.  Sure  of  a  sympathetic  listener  he 
commenced  : 

"  Ach  !  those  two  terrible  peoples,  that  dreadful 
voman.  Vat  you  think  they  do  ?  Ach  !  it  is  awful. 
I  fall  asleep  ;  I  sleep  so  sound  for  a  long,  long  time. 
I  vake — something  against  my  leg  vake  me — it  vas 
icy  cold.  I  ope  mine  eyes,  and  dere  vas  dat  man 
in  black — vat  you  call  him  .-^ — de — de — undertaker — 
he  vos  measuring  me  for  mine  coffin  !  Ach  !  ach  ! 
I  vill  go  home  no  more  !  I  get  up  at  vonce,  I  dress, 
I  take  a  chair — I  vill  go  home  no  more  !  Ach  !  it 
vas  too  terrible  !  " 

My  father  tried  to  calm  him,  but  the  poor  man 
was  fully  persuaded  his  relatives  were  tired  of  him 
and  anxious  for   his  death. 

"  The  Cave  of  Harmony  "  in  The  Newcomes  is 
certainly  Evans's.  It  was  to  the  "  Cave "  that  the 
bucks  of  that  day,  after  going  to  the  pit  of  the  theatre, 
as  was  the  fashion,  adjourned  to  sup  off  welsh  rabbit, 
and  listen  to  three  admirable  glee  singers  and  other 
artists.  "  The  Chough  and  Crow,"  "  The  Red  Cross 
Knight,"  and  "  The  Bloom  is  on  the  Rye "  were 
favourite  songs  ;  and  Thackeray  tells  us  that  there 
came  into  the  "  Cave  "  one  night  "  a  gentleman  with 
a  lean  brown  face,  long  black  moustaches,  and  dressed 
in  loose  clothes,  and  evidently  a  stranger  to  the  place." 


36  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

This  gentleman  was  Colonel  Newcome,  and  he  was 
pointing  out  the  changes  to  his  son,  young  Clive,  and 
tellinpf  him  that  all  the  wits  used  to  come  there — Mr. 
Sheridan,  Captain  Morris,  Colonel  Hanger,  Professor 
Person.  Clive  Newcome,  recognising  a  schoolfellow, 
goes  over  to  speak  to  him,  followed  by  his  father  ;  the 
young  man  then  introduces  three  college  friends. 

"  You  have  come  here,  gentleman,  to  see  the  wits," 
says  the  Colonel,  "  Are  there  any  celebrated  persons 
in  the  room  ?  I  have  been  five-and-thirty  years  from 
home,  and  want  to  see  all  there  is  to  be  seen." 

One  of  the  company  thinks  it  would  be  a  joke  to 
take  the  Colonel  in,  by  pointing  out  certain  nobodies 
as  Rogers,  Hook,  Lutterell,  etc.  ;  but  the  others 
won't  have  it,  and  they  give  the  proprietor,  whom 
Thackeray  calls  Hoskins,  a  hint  that  the  songs  had 
better  be  selected,  as  there  is  a  boy  and  a  gentleman, 
'*  quite  a  greenhorn,"  in  the  room. 

"  And  so  they  were,"  says  Thackeray.  "  A  lady's 
school  might  have  come  in,  and,  but  for  the  smell 
of  cigars  and  brandy  and  water,  have  taken  no 
harm  by  what  happened.  Why  should  it  not 
always  be  so  ?  If  there  are  any  '  Caves  of  Harmony  ' 
now  I  warrant  Messrs.  the  Landlords  their  interest 
would  be  better  consulted  by  keeping  their  singers 
within  bounds.  The  very  greatest  scamps  like  pretty 
songs,  and  are  melted  by  them  ;  so  are  honest  people. 
It  was  worth  a  guinea  to  see  the  simple  Colonel  and 
his  delight   at   the  music.   .   .   .  He  joined    in  all   the 


Evanses   Supper-'Rooms  37 

choruses  with  an  exceedingly  sweet  voice.  He  laughed 
at  '  The  Derby  Ram '  so  that  it  did  you  good  to  hear 
him  ;  and  when  Hoskins  sang  (as  he  did  admirably) 
'  The  Old  English  Gentleman,'  tears  trickled  down 
the  honest  warrior's  cheeks,  while  he  held  out  his 
hand  to  Hoskins  and  said,  '  Thank  you,  sir,  for  that 
song ;  it  is  an  honour  to  human  nature.'  " 

The  Colonel  is  charmed  with  each  feat  of  young 
Nadab,  the  Improvisatore,  who  has  pat  rhymes  to  suit 
all  the  people  in  the  room.  All  goes  on  well,  even 
the  Colonel  himself  singing  "  Wapping  Old  Stairs," 
till  Captain  Costigan,  coming  in  very  drunk,  offers  to 
sing,  and  selects  one  of  the  most  outrageous  perfor- 
mances of  his  repertoire.  At  the  end  of  the  second 
verse  the  Colonel  started  up,  clapping  on  his  hat, 
seizing  his  stick,  and  looking  as  ferocious  as  though  he 
were  going  to  do  battle  with  a  Pindaree.  "  Silence  !  " 
he  roared  out — he  then  gives  the  company  a  piece  of 
his  mind,  and  walks  out  followed  by  his  son. 

At  the  end  of  the  sixties  the  popularity  of  "  Evans's  " 
was  still  at  its  height,  but  it  was  different  from  what 
it  was  when  Clive  Newcome  saw  it.  Some  time  before 
the  little  room  had  been  found  too  small  for  the  mighty 
audiences,  so  it  was  pulled  down,  and  a  large  concert 
room  and  an  annex  had  been  built  on  the  site.  Partly 
along  one  side  of  the  room  ran  a  gallery,  which  was 
fitted  up  as  an  ante-room  and  a  private  supper-room. 
The  ante-room  led  into  the  supper-room,  from  which 
it  was  divided  by  a  green    velvet  curtain.     From  this 


38  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

gallery  ladies  could  look  down  through  a  grille  into 
the  hail,  and  could  see  and  hear  without  being 
seen. 

In  the  body  of  the  hall  were  numbers  of  small 
round  marble-topped  tables,  and  round  these  men  sat, 
eating  a  substantial  supper  of  steak,  chops,  etc.,  or 
merely  enjoying  a  cigar  or  pipe  and  a  glass  of  beer  or 
wine.  At  the  end  of  the  hall  was  a  stage  for  the 
singers.  The  entertainment  was  as  much  improved  as 
the  room  ;  the  music-hall  songs  had  given  place  to 
old  glees  and  madrigals,  the  choruses  of  which  were 
sung  by  trained  lads  (some  of  them  being  the  choir- 
boys of  St.  Paul's),  whose  fresh  young  voices  sounded 
very  sweet  in  those  old  songs. 

My  father  was  enchanted  with  the  singing  of  these 
boys,  and  said  that  my  mother  and  I  must  hear  them. 
He  therefore  arranged  with  Paddy  Green  that  we 
should  come  one  night  to  the  private  supper-room  in 
the  gallery,  not  to  take  supper,  "  but  to  have  a  little 
light  refreshment  and  a  glass  of  champagne."  Paddy 
Green  professed  himself  greatly  gratified  and  delighted, 
and  he  said,  "  We  must  have  a  special  entertainment 
for  your  daughter — nothing  outre^  nothing  vulgar." 
Though  he  had  never  seen  me,  he  had  a  list  of  the 
various  entertainments  copied  out,  and  sent  it  to  me 
with  a  kindly  message  that  I  was  to  choose  all  the 
music,  vocal  and  instrumental,  for  that  night.  I  chose 
a  selection  from  Macbeth  as  instrumental  music,  and 
several  glees   by   various   composers  :   I  know   "  Sweet 


Evanses  Supper-Rooms  39 

and  Low  "  was  one,  "  Hush  thee,  my  Babe,"  another, 
and  I  also  chose  the  celebrated  Thuringian  air  "  Breathe 
not  of  Parting,"  which  was  most  beautifully  sung.  I 
requested  that  the  gentleman  who  played  airs  on  a 
coffee-pot  should  play  old  English  airs,  and  not  any- 
thing Scotch.  My  father  laughed,  and  said  1  gave  my 
commands  like  a  queen.  The  visit  was  all  duly  arranged 
a  week  or  more  in  advance,  and  I  was  brim  full  of 
excitement,  especially  as  a  friend,  a  girl  a  few  years  my 
senior,  was  to  accompany  us. 

The  evening  arrived,  and  we  drove  up  to  the  supper- 
rooms  about  ten  o'clock,  intending  to  stay  till  after 
twelve,  for  I  had  arranged  a  moderately  long  pro- 
gramme. We  were  shown  up  into  the  gallery,  and 
entered  the  ante-room,  or  first  box  (the  rooms  were 
something  like  large  boxes  at  a  theatre)  ;  my  mother 
seated  herself  in  the  chair  farthest  from  the  stage,  my 
father  opposite  her,  and  my  friend  in  the  middle, 
while  I  elected  to  roam  about  from  one  room  to  the 
other.  So  1  Hfted  the  velvet  curtain  and,  dropping  it 
behind  me,  passed  into  the  large  room.  There  I 
found  a  table  elegantly  laid  for  four  people.  There 
were  just  four  of  us,  and  at  the  first  glance  I  thought  we 
were  going  to  sup  there  ;  but  we  had  dined  at  eight 
and  could  not  possibly  want  supper — besides,  my  father 
had  said  "  only  light  refreshment."  I  wandered  round 
the  table  and  looked  at  the  beautiful  damask  and  the 
rare  flowers.  I  sat  down  near  the  grille  and  listened 
to  the   boys'  beautiful  voices,  and  I  thought  I  might 


40  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

be  in  fairy-land.  Aladdin,  who,  rubbing  the  lamp, 
ordered  a  feast,  might  have  had  just  such  a  table  set 
before  him,  I  told  myself.  Then  I  thought  of  the 
Prince  in  the  story  of  The  White  Cat  who  is  led 
into  a  dining-room  by  some  hands  to  which  no  body 
is  attached,  and  finds  a  table  elegantly  laid  for  two  ; 
but  this  was  for  four — who  would  be  coming,  I 
wondered  .''     I  made  up  my  mind  it  must  be  a  prince. 

The  artist  had  just  played  the  old  English  airs  on 
the  coffee-pot,  amid  a  storm  of  applause,  when  my 
father,  lifting  the  velvet  curtain,  called  me,  and  I  was 
introduced  to  Paddy  Green,  who  was  very  deferential 
and  charming,  complimenting  me  on  my  excellent 
programme,  and  telling  me  I  had  good  taste  in  music. 
Then  he  and  my  father  had  a  low-toned  colloquy, 
in  which  I  heard  Paddy  Green  say,  with  much 
shrugging  of  the  shoulders,  that  "  he  was  very  sorry  " 
— "  most  unfortunate,  but  what  could  he  do  }  " — and 
my  father  that  "  it  was  of  no  consequence,  we  should 
not  have  stayed  late,  and  that  now,  of  course,  we 
should  go  at  once." 

'*  No,  no,"  said  the  genial  little  man,  "they  will 
not  be  here  till  after  the  theatres,  and  your  daughter 
will  like  to  see  the  celebrities— but  no  notice  must 
be  taken." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  my  father  emphatically,  and 
at  this  point,  the  champagne  and  sandwiches  arriving, 
we  turned  our  attention  to  eating  and  drinking,  while 
the  beautiful  voices  of  the  boys  sang  "  Hush  thee,  my 


Evanses   Supper-Rooms  4^ 

Babe,"  and  Paddy  Green,  with  "  nods  and  becks  and 
wreathed  smiles,"  silently  drank  our  health  and  then 
stole  quietly  away. 

When  the  glee  was  over  my  father  told  us  that 
Royalty  was  coming  to  supper  in  the  next  room,  and 
that,  as  there  was  no  other  entrance,  they  would  pass 
through  our  room,  and  therefore  he  meant  to  leave 
at  half-past  eleven.  Paddy  Green  did  not  think  the 
party  would  arrive  before  that  time.  Now  the  song 
my  father  particularly  wanted  us  to  hear  was  "  Breathe 
not  of  Parting,"  and  it  was  in  the  middle  of  the  pro- 
gramme, so  we  waited  for  it.  I  shall  never  forget  how 
beautifully  it  was  sung,  and  what  a  storm  of  applause 
greeted  it  ;  there  was  an  encore,  and  again  the  boys' 
beautiful  voices  seemed  almost  to  whisper  the  words, 
and  the  silence  was  so  intense  a  pin  could  have  been 
heard  to  drop  ;  the  song  seemed  to  die  away,  and  I  came 
back  to  earth  with  a  sigh.  I  found  I  was  in  the  royal 
supper-room,  and  I  made  haste  to  go,  for,  though  my 
programme  was  only  half  through,  we  were  going  ; 
I  therefore  stepped  quickly  to  the  velvet  curtain  and 
drew  it  aside,  to  find  myself  face  to  face  with  the 
Prince  of  Wales. 

I  do  not  know  how  I  looked,  but  he  looked  very 
well  and  jolly,  and  intensely  amused  as  he  held  back  the 
curtain  for  me  and  gave  me  a  pleasant  smile  and  bow 
as  I  bowed  and  thanked  him  ;  there  were  two  ladies 
behind  him  and  a  gentleman.  My  mother  and  my 
friend  were  seated,  apparently  absorbed  in  the   stage. 


42  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

my  father  was  standing,  and  directly  the  curtain  fell 
behind  them  we  put  on  our  cloaks  and  passed  out. 

We  were  all  very  loyal  people,  but  I  think  that 
night  we  were  none  of  us  as  pleased  as  we  ought  to 
have  been  to  see  the  heir  to  the  throne. 

Paddy  Green  said,  "  You  must  come  again,  Missie, 
you  must  come  again  "  ;  but  that  was  my  first  and  last 
visit  to  "  Evans's." 


CHAPTER    IV 

UNDER  A  CLOUD  " — THE  BURTONS — TO  SCHOOL  AT  WATFORD — YELLOW- 
BACKED  NOVELS— THE  SPECIMEN  PUPIL — MR.  AND  MRS.  GERALD 
MASSEY — THOMAS   COOPER,    CHARTIST. 

TN  those  happy  days  writing  had  not  become  a 
trade,  and  people  were  not  always  in  a  hurry. 
Education  was  not  perpetually  being  talked  about  ; 
children  were  not  "  crammed  "  to  pass  examinations, 
as  geese  are  for  market  ;  there  were  no  school  boards 
— and  it  was  possible  to  get  a  respectable  servant,  who 
had  some  idea  of  doing  her  duty,  and  of  being  respect- 
ful to  her  employers.  But  many  of  the  working  classes 
could  neither  read  nor  write,  and  this  was  the  case 
with  "  my  own  Mary  Ann,"  as  Mr.  Ross  called  my 
nurse. 

My  mother  was  anxious  to  remedy  the  defect,  and 
when  my  father  was  out,  or  busy  in  his  study,  she 
gave  the  young  woman  lessons,  and  after  the  lessons 
read  aloud  some  story,  while  Mary  Ann  nursed  the 
new  baby,  and  the  Philosopher  and  Toddlekins  sat  as 
quiet  as  mice,  but  much  interested  in  the  proceedings. 
It  was  thus  that  Toddlekins  heard  her  first  novel,  and 
became  very  fond  of  the  story ;  and  here  she  showed 
her  good   taste,  for  the  novel  was   Under  a   Cloudy  by 

43 


44  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

one  of  the  Greenwood  brothers  ;  it  appeared  in  a 
weekly  magazine  called  The  Welcome  Guest ;  and 
though  Toddlekins  was  much  too  young  to  understand 
it,  she  would  run  about  with  a  bound  volume  of  the 
magazine,  a  big  book  that  she  could  scarcely  carry,  and 
ask  for  "  Wappits,  you're  wanted,"  as  she  called  the 
story,  after  her  favourite  illustration. 

But  "  little  Toddlekins  "  vanishes,  like  the  fairy  her 
old  friend  George  Cruikshank  declared  she  was  ;  a 
thin,  pale  child  takes  her  place.  The  baby  has  grown 
into  a  sturdy  boy,  he  and  the  pale  child  trudge  to 
school  together  to  Hart  Street,  Bloomsbury.  My 
father  had  moved  to  Southampton  Street,  Bloomsbury  ; 
he  had  been  looking  for  a  house  in  that  neighbourhood 
for  some  time,  but  could  not  get  one  to  his  liking. 
No.  3  was  verv  large,  having  fifteen  rooms  ;  the 
ground  floor,  too,  was  a  lawyer's  offices,  and  let  to  a 
solicitor  named  Romew,  which  soon  became  "  Romeo," 
and  gave  rise  to  endless  jokes  amongst  the  actors  and 
authors  who  visited  us. 

It  was  in  Southampton  Street  that  the  Burtons  first 
came  to  see  us.  I  can  see  Mrs.  Burton  now,  a  stylishly 
dressed  woman — my  childish  ideal  of  a  princess — 
talking,  talking,  talking  to  a  beautiful,  but  silent 
companion,  while  a  small  girl,  nursing  a  large  wax  doll, 
stares  with  solemn  dark  eyes  at  the  picture  they  make. 

I  was  so  delicate  in  those  days  that  I  was  almost 
always  at  home  from  school,  and  my  mother  scarcely 
let  me  out  of  her  sight.     It  seemed  to  me  that  this 


Lady   Burton  45 

beautiful  woman  came  and  talked  for  whole  days 
at  a  time,  and  it  was  all  about  "  Dear  Richard  and 
the  Government."  Mrs.  (afterwards  Lady)  Burton 
was  of  medium  height,  dark  haired,  bright  com- 
plexioned,  and  very  animated  in  her  manner.  My 
mother  was  a  good  listener  ;  she  was  repose  per- 
sonified ;  only  now  and  then  she  smiled  or  put  in 
a  word  ;  but  Mrs.  Burton's  stream  of  eloquence 
never  seemed  to  be  exhausted,  I  was  intensely  in- 
terested, at  times  worked  up  into  an  excited  state. 
Once  I  crept  out  of  my  corner,  and,  with  my  doll 
clasped  in  my  arms,  came  and  stood  in  front  of  the 
lady  and  stared  in  her  face.  Mrs.  Burton  never 
saw  me,  but  my  mother  told  me  to  leave  the  room, 
and  I  silently  obeyed,  and  toiled  up  the  stairs  to 
my  grandmother's  bedroom,  where  I  myself  slept  ; 
and  sitting  on  my  own  little  bed,  I  sat  the  doll  up 
in  front  of  me  (she  was  a  beautiful  wax  creature  with 
long,  curly  hair,  and  wax  arms  and  legs)  and  went 
over  most  of  the  argument  about  Richard  and  the 
Government,  imitating  Mrs.  Burton's  animated  manner  ; 
but  Richard  was  a  fairy  prince  and  Government  an 
ogre. 

Captain  Burton  was,  I  believe,  in  Africa  when  his 
wife  came  to  ask  my  father  to  take  up  the  cudgels 
in  his  defence,  and  to  pour  all  her  troubles  into 
my  mother's  ears.  Of  all  that  was  said,  I  can  only 
remember  one  remarkable  sentence,  and  that  I  after- 
wards   found   in   one  of   Mrs.   Burton's  letters  to  my 


46  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

father  ;     so,    as  we   all  do  on  occasions,   she   repeated 
herself.      I  can  hear  her  now  saying  : 

"  Yes,  they  are  making  a  complete  Aunt  Sally  of 
the  poor  fellow,  and  he  can't  stand  up  for  himself. 
You  and  Mr.  Friswell  will  say  he  deserves  it  for 
his  polygamous  opinions  ;  but  he  married  only  one 
wife,  and  he  is  a  domestic  man  at  home,  and  a  homesick 
man  away.     Poor  dear  Richard  !  " 

She  waved  her  hand  energetically,  and  her  eyes 
flashed  ;  I  was  very  sympathetic,  and  felt  as  if  I 
could  kill  Government  ;  my  hands  clenched,  my  cheeks 
burned,  and  my  eyes  were  glowing  ;  it  was  then  that 
my  mother  saw  me  and  told  me  to  run  away. 

I  was  naturally  very  anxious  to  see  "  Richard,"  as 
I  always  called  Captain  Burton  to  myself ;  in  fact, 
I  do  not  think  I  realised  that  he  was  a  mere  man, 
and  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Burton — he  was  some  one 
infinitely    greater. 

When  I  did  see  him  I  was  terribly  disappointed 
and  rather  alarmed.  He  was  not  a  fairy  prince,  but 
a  bold  bandit  ;  such  a  great,  strong  man  could  not 
want  any  one's  help,  I  thought,  in  my  ignorance.  His 
loud  voice,  and  rather  sneering  manner,  as  though 
he  believed  in  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth,  and  above 
all  the  long  sabre  cut  across  his  face,  made  him  look 
so  fierce  that  he  might  well  strike  terror  into  the 
heart  of  a  small  girl.  My  mother  says  he  was  fond 
of  talking  about  spiritualism,  and  of  saying  he  believed 
in    some    of  the    wonderful    stories    he   told    on    that 


Sir   Richard   Burton  47 

subject  ;  but  he  said  so  in  such  a  cynical  manner  she 
never  beHeved  him  ;  he  was  also  fond  of  telling  the 
most  vivid,  wonderful,  and  often  horrible  stories, 
which  she  put  down  as  travellers'  tales.  Of  the  Indian 
snake  charmers,  and  conjurors,  he  had  endless  tales, 
one  being  that  "  he  had  seen  them  call  down  fire  from 
heaven."  He  laughed  at  all  religions,  and  to  such 
an  extent  that  my  mother  would  never  allow  any 
discussion  on  the  subject  when  he  came.  We  were 
all  charmed  with  Lady  Burton. 

Two  or  three  doctors  coming  to  the  conclusion 
(and  unanimously)  that  I  could  not  live  in  London, 
I  was  sent  to  school  at  Watford.  My  school- 
mistresses were  three  maiden  ladies,  family  connections 
of  ours,  and  sisters  to  George  Dawson,  the  popular 
Nonconformist  minister  and  lecturer.  The  school 
was  a  pretty,  old-fashioned,  rose-covered  cottage, 
surrounded  by  a  large  garden,  and  standing  just  out- 
side the  gates  of  Cassiobury  Park.  Here  the  Misses 
Dawson  taught  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot — but 
it  was  in  a  very  prim  and  old-fashioned  manner. 

On  my  going  back  to  school  after  the  first  term 
a  rather  amusing  incident  occurred,  which,  as  it  throws 
some  light  on  the  curious  old-fashioned  prejudices 
of  the  time,  I  make  no  excuse  for  telling.  My 
mother  had  seen  me  off  at  Euston,  putting  me  in 
charge  of  the  guard  ;  besides  my  beloved  doll,  I  had 
a  copy  of  Diamonds  and  Spades^  which  my  mother 
had  bought  me  at  the  station  bookstall.     Diamonds  and 


4^  In   the  Sixties   and  Seventies 

Spades  is  a  dramatic  story,  written  by  my  father  ; 
it  had  run  through  several  editions,  and  was  in  the 
cheap  two-shilhng  yellow  cover  which  is  even  now 
the  favourite  colour  for  railway   editions. 

I  was  very  miserable  as  the  train  started,  for  I  hated 
leaving  home,  and  there  was  nothing  in  common 
between  me  and  the  schoolgirls.  I  had  not  been  used 
to  girls,  and  I  knew  they  looked  upon  me  as  odd  : — 
"  curious  little  kid — talks  like  a  book  when  she  likes — 
but  doesn't  she  use  odd  words  !  "  were  some  of  the 
remarks  they  made. 

At  the  beginning  and  end  of  a  term  the  work  is 
disorganised  in  most  schools,  and  when  I  arrived  in 
the  schoolroom  that  afternoon,  after  taking  off  my 
outdoor  things,  I  found  the  girls  standing  about  in 
groups,  discussing  all  they  had  seen  or  done  in  the 
holidays,  or  putting  the  new  pupils  through  a  regular 
catechism,  which  always  took  this  form :  "  Have  you 
got  a  father  .?  "  and  if  the  answer  was  Yes,  "  What 
is  he  .'' " — if  No,  "  When  did  he  die  '^.  "  Then  the 
questions  went  on  till  they  had  learnt  all  about  the 
members  of  the  family,  and  their  respective  ages  and 
occupations.  I  had  been  through  this  ordeal  the  term 
before,  but  I  pitied  the  scared,  tearful  child  who, 
surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  big  girls,  was  undergoing 
it  as  I  came  in. 

My  appearance,  with  my  doll  on  one  arm  and  the 
book  under  the  other,  created  a  diversion  ;  they  let 
the    new    pupil    go,    and   closed    round    me  ;  one    big 


Yellow'backed   Novels  49 

girl,  snatching  the  book  from  me,  waved  it  aloft,  crying 
out  : 

"  Look,  look  what  the  little  kid  has  brought — one 
of  those  wicked  yellow-backed  novels." 

"  Oh  ! — let's  look  !  Do  let's  look  !  "  cried  several 
voices,  while  hands  were  out-stretched,  and  I  began  to 
think  my  book  would  be  torn  to  pieces,  and  accord- 
ingly lifted  up  my  voice  in  angry  protest  ;  but  many 
of  those  girls  were  eighteen,  and  none  under  sixteen, 
so  they  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  my  wishes, 
but  closed  up  round  the  girl  who  held  Diamonds  and 
Spades. 

'*  O-o-oh  ! — doesn't  it  look  interesting  ?  doesn't  it 
look  wicked  ?  Yellow  books  are  always  improper," 
were  some  of  the  sentences  I  heard. 

"  Just  look  at  the  cover,  a  man  murdering  an- 
other."— "  Oh  !  do  let  me  see — how  is  he  doing 
it.?" — ''Why,  hitting  him  over  the  head — can't  you 
see  the  poker,  stupid  .?  " — *'  It  does  look  exciting — but 
won't  she  get  in  a  row  !  " 

All  this  time  I  was  crying  out  : 

"  Give  me  my  book ! — it  isn't  wicked  !  Miss 
Dawson  won't  take   it  away  !     Give  me  my   book  !  " 

"  Where  did  you  get  it }  "  asked  the  girl  who  had 
taken  it  from  under  my  arm  ;  she  was  a  sister  of  one 
of  the  governesses,  and  a  pupil  teacher,  and  she 
tyrannised  over  the  small  girls  mercilessly. 

"  My  mother  bought  it  for  me,"  I  said,  almost  in 
tears. 


50  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  !  that  won't  do — mothers  won't 
allow  such  books  to  be  read,  I  know  ;  yellow-backs  are 
always  wicked." 

"Yellow  books  are  not  wicked!"  I  cried  angrily, 
"  and  my  father  wrote  it  !  " 

At  this  point  the  governess,  Miss  H.,  appeared,  and 
was  appealed  to.  She  looked  very  grave,  and  said  she 
did  not  think  that  books  bought  from  a  railway  book- 
stall were  fit  reading  for  any  one,  and  especially  not  for 
little  girls  ;  she  could  scarcely  believe  my  mother 
bought  it  for  me,  but  if  so,  she  was  sure  Miss  Dawson 
would  wish  to-  keep  the  book  for  me  till  I  went 
home. 

It  was  not  often  I  showed  temper,  but  I  was  so 
angry  I  turned  upon  Miss  H.  like  a  fury,  and  said  : 

"  It's  not  a  wicked  book  !  my  father  wrote  it  ; 
books  are  not  bad,  and  you  are  a  set  of  ignorant 
Philistines." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  and  then  a  big 
girl  asked  : 

"What  are  Philistines.''" 

"  You  are  so  stupid,  you  don't  know  half  your  own 
language  !  Philistines  are  silly,  dull  people,  who  have 
no  idea  of  literature  or  art  !  "    I  retorted. 

"  Who  says  that .'' — the  writing  people  you  know, 
1   suppose  ?  "    asked   a  voice. 

"  Yes  !  "  I  cried,  "  the  best,  the  cleverest,  and  most 
interesting  people  in  the  world  ! — every  one  else  is  dull 
and  stupid  !  "    and  then   1  burst  into  such  a  storm  of 


^^ Diamonds   and   Spades*^  51 

tears  that  every  one  was  silent ;  then,  out  of  the  silence, 
the  voice  of  a  solemn,  phlegmatic  Russian  girl  said  : 

"  My  father  says  writers  are  a  silly,  wicked  lot  who 
make  no  money." 

At  this  point  Miss  Dawson  entered.  She  was  tall, 
spare,  and  very  severe-looking,  but  one  of  the  kindest 
women  in  the  world.  She  wanted  to  know  what  was 
the  matter,  and  she  ordered  my  book  to  be  given  to 
me,  saying  that  she  was  astonished  at  Miss  H.  taking 
it  away  when  she  saw  who  was  the  author. 

The  book  was  restored  to  me,  but  I  was  in  such 
a  state  of  nervous  irritation  that  I  cried  myself  ill, 
nor  would  I  be  pacified.  I  was  quite  laid  up  for  some 
days,  and  Miss  Dawson  was  very  much  annoyed ; 
but  I  doubt  if  she  fully  understood  the  matter,  and 
I  could  not  explain,  as  I  was  quite  incapable  of  under- 
standing the  point  of  view  of  those  big  girls.  Indeed, 
their  behaviour  bewildered  me  very  much,  for  they 
all  v/anted  to  read  Diamonds  and  Spades^  and  begged 
me  to  lend  it  to  them,  not  because  my  father  had 
written  it,  but  simply  because  of  the  yellow  cover. 

"  You  called  it  wicked,"  I  said  ;  "  then  why  do  you 
want  to  read  \tV 

They  giggled  and  nudged  each  other  and  called 
me  "  Baby  !  " 

I  explained  that  this  was  a  new  and  cheap  edition, 
that  the  colour  of  the  cover  had  nothing  to  do  with 
a  book.  They  would  not  agree  :  "  Yellow-backs 
are    always    wicked,"    they    said.     I  further  explained 


5  2  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

that  authors  were  obHged  to  put  wicked  people  into 
stories,  but  that  though  it  was  wrong  to  rob  or  kill 
people,  it  was  not  wrong  to  read  about  such  things. 

Again  they  laughed,  and  I  declared  they  should  not 
have  Diamonds  and  Spades  till  they  explained  their 
idea  of  a  wicked  book. 

Miss  L.  H.,  the  girl  who  had  first  taken  the  book 
from  me,  was  the  most  determined  to  read  it,  and 
she  gave  me  this  explanation  : 

"  It's  nothing  to  do  with  murders — I  can't  explain, 
but  I  love  reading  yellow-backs,  and  I  always  do 
whenever  I  can.  I  should  catch  it  like  anything  if 
my  mother  knew,  but  she  doesn't,  for  this  is  the  way 
I  manage.  I  get  them  from  a  library  and  smuggle 
them  up  into  my  room — it's  lovely  there  on  a  summer 
afternoon,  the  sun  streams  in  the  windows,  and  I 
sit  up  there  with  my  work  and  a  yellow-back  ;  I 
have  the  book  in  my  lap,  and  my  work — it's  generally 
plain  sewing — in  my  hand,  and  if  I  hear  my  mother 
coming  upstairs — and  I  listen,  I  can  tell  you — I  hide 
the  novel — sit  on  it,  or  drop  my  work  over  it,  or  slip 
it  on  the  floor  under  my  dress.  Twice  she's  nearly 
caught  me — it  was  so  interesting  I  did  not  hear  her 
coming  ;  some  day  1  shall  be  caught,  and  then  won't 
there  be  a  fine  to-do  !  "     She  laughed. 

I  thought  L.  H.'s  mother  must  be  curious,  if  not 
quite  mad,  to  think  novels  so  wicked,  and  I  improved 
the  occasion  by  lecturing  L.  H.,  in  spite  of  her  eight 
years'    seniority,    on    the    enormity    of    deceiving    her 


A   Quotation   from   Sheridan  53 

mother.  She  laughed  aloud,  and  said  I  was  *'  as  good 
as  a  play"  ;  but  she  only  wished  her  parents  were  like 
mine,  and  I  was  lucky  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  the 
theatre  and  read  what  books  I  liked. 

Years  afterwards,  when  I  read  Sheridan's  play,  The 
Rivals^  I  was  reminded  of  L,  H.  and  her  confessions. 
Who  does  not  remember  the  scene  in  Mrs.  Malaprop's 
lodgings,  where  Lydia  Languish  is  discovered  on  a 
sofa  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  and  Lucy,  her  maid, 
enters  in  a  hurry  to  say  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  and 
Mrs.   Malaprop  are  coming  upstairs  ? — 

"  Lydia  :  Here,  my  dear  Lucy,  hide  these  books. 
Quick,  quick,  fling  Peregrine  Pickle  under  the  toilet — 
throw  Roderick  Random  into  the  closet — put  The 
Innocent  Adultery  into  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man — thrust 
Lord  Aimworth  under  the  sofa — cram  Ovid  behind 
the  bolster — there — put  The  Man  of  Feeling  into  your 
pocket — so,  so — now  lay  Mrs.  Chapone  in  sight,  and 
leave  Fordyce's  Sermons  open  on  the  table. 

''''Lucy :  O  burn  it,  ma'am  !  the  hairdresser  has  torn 
away  as  far  as  Proper  Pride. 

**  Lydia  :  Never  mind — open  at  Sobriety.  Fling  me 
Lord  Chesterfield's  Letters.     Now  for  'em." 

The  Misses  Dawson  were  Baptists,  and  used  to 
attend  a  small,  whitewashed  chapel  of  the  barest 
description  ;  a  three-decker  pulpit,  with  an  enormous 
crimson  velvet  cushion  on  each  reading-desk,  having 
tassels  about  nine  inches  round  and  a  foot  long,  gave 
tone    and   colour  to    the    place.     The    preacher    often 


54  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

and  vigorously  thumped  the  cushion  in  the  upper 
pulpit,  while  one  of  the  tradespeople,  a  chemist,  acting 
as  clerk,  stood  in  the  lower  and  called  out  "  Amen  " 
in  a  stentorian  voice  ;  he  also  read  out  the  hymns 
with  much  unction,  then,  waving  his  arms  like  a 
baton,  led  the  singing,  thundering  out  the  verse 
in  so  loud  a  tone  that  his  voice  was  heard  above  all 
others.  Having  read  and  sung  one  verse,  he  read 
the  next  and  then  sang  it,  the  congregation  joining  in, 
and  so  reading  and  singing,  went  through  to  the  end. 
During  the  last  verse  of  the  hymn  before  the  sermon 
he  usually  came  out  of  his  box  and  walked  down 
the  aisle,  to  speak  to  the  door-keeper  presumably  ;  he 
sang  his  loudest  all  the  time,  and  as  he  passed  the 
noise  was  deafening,  and  the  girls  nearest  the  pew 
doors  always  ducked  their  heads  and  declared  it  was 
necessary  to  put  up  umbrellas. 

The  Gentle  Life  had  been  out  some  time,  and 
was  very  popular.  The  Misses  Dawson  were,  I 
suppose,  proud  of  having  the  author's  daughter  as 
one  of  their  pupils,  and  much  to  my  disgust  I  was 
often  sent  for  when  parents,  who  were  thinking  of 
placing  their  children  at  the  school,  came  to  inspect 
it.  I  can  see  myself,  a  small,  pale,  painfully  thin  child, 
with  hands  that  were  so  tiny  and  so  thin  that  my 
schoolfellows  likened  them  to  birds'  claws.  I  hated 
to  be  sent  for,  and  to  be  introduced  as  "  the  daughter 
of  the  author  of  The  Gentle  Life  "  ;  I  resented  being 
stared    at    by  rich,  handsomely   dressed    women,    who 


The   Show   Pupil  55 

looked  their  astonishment.  I  had  read  Nicholas 
Nicklehy^  and  used  to  think  of  Wackford  Squeers, 
who  looked  so  well  and  fat,  and  I  wondered  the 
Misses  Dawson  did  not  send  for  a  Miss  Stone,  the 
daughter  of  a  wholesale  purveyor  of  meat,  who 
was  a  dark-haired,  rosy-cheeked,  pretty  girl,  whom 
we  all  admired. 

When  I  came  out  from  these  interviews  I  had  to 
run  the  gauntlet  of  the  twenty  odd  pupils'  curiosity 
and  chaff. 

"  Well,  little  Frissie,"  they  would  say,  "  what  was 
she  like  this  time  } "  and  I  would  give  them  an 
imitation  of  the  rich  woman,  with  her  pince-nez,  and 
her  astonishment  at  my  smallness  ;  her  comment  when 
I  was  shutting  the  door  :  "  Oh,  poor  little  thing, 
she  looks  as  if  her  bones  would  come  through  her 
skin — and  what  a  churchyard  cough  she  has  !  "  This, 
and  "  Oh,  poor  child,  how  deHcate !  she  isn't  long 
for  this  world,  any  one  can  see,"  were  the  usual 
formulae. 

The  girls  used  to  roar  with  laughter  at  my  mimicry  ; 
but  they  chaffed  me  unmercifully  about  my  thinness 
and  my  cough,  which  was  very  hollow-sounding.  My 
heart  was  often  full  of  disgust  and  anger,  and  one 
day,  having  the  toothache  very  badly,  I  lost  my  temper, 
and  striking  my  hand  on  the  schoolroom  table,  cried 
out: 

"  I  won't  be  looked  at  any  more  as  the  daughter 
gf  the  author   of  The  Gentle   Life,   and   I  don't  care 


56  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

if  I  have  a  churchyard  cough  ;  I  will  grow  up  and 
get  married — and  the  first  present  my  husband  shall 
buy  me  will  be  a  set  of  new  teeth  !  " 

There  were  screams  of  laughter  at  this  speech,  and 
in  the  midst  of  it,  as  I  was  being  carried  round 
the  room  in  the  arms  of  a  tall,  stalwart  girl,  whose 
hair  I  was  pulling  to  make  her  release  me,  the  door 
was  thrown  open  and  Miss  Dawson  came  in.  The 
laughter  was  hushed  instantly,  and  I  was  allowed  to 
slip  to   the  floor. 

"  Christabel  and  Geraldine  Massey,  and  Laura 
Hain  Friswell,"  said  Miss  Dawson  (she  never  forgot 
the  Hain).  Christabel,  a  good-looking  girl,  very  like 
her  father,  rose,  followed  by  her  sister,  a  pale,  thin 
child,  and  I  came  last.  We  did  not  know  what 
would  happen,  but  thought  we  were  in  for  a  scold- 
ing. But  the  Massey  girls  gave  a  cry  of  delight, 
and  were  embracing  a  short,  bright-eyed,  alert  man, 
with  bushy  curly  hair,  who  stood  in  the  hall  with 
his  back  to  the  door,  while  a  few  paces  from  him, 
standing  up  tall  and  ghostly,  was  a  lady,  whose 
clothes  seemed  to  have  been  huddled  on  her,  and 
might,  if  she  moved,  drop  off.  It  was  a  summer 
evening,  and  I  believe  Mrs.  Massey  was  dressed  in 
pale  muslin,  and  wore  a  scarf  and  bonnet.  1  know 
the  limp  dress  clung  round  her,  and  I  can  see  the 
evening  sunlight  from  the  schoolroom  window  shining 
on  her  impassive  face  and  cjuiet  eyes,  which  had  a 
far-away  look    in  them.      I   stopped  short  on  the  mat 


Gerald   Massey  57 

and  gazed  at  her,  and  so  prevented  Miss  Dawson,  who 
was  behind  me,  from  shutting  the  schoolroom  door. 

The  poet  we  all  knew,  for  he  often  came  to  see 
his  daughters  ;  but  Mrs.  Massey  we  had  never  seen, 
and  there  was  some  curiosity  about  her,  tor  we  had 
heard  she  was  a  clairvoyant,  was  often  ill,  and  walked 
in  her  sleep.  I  had  no  idea  what  a  clairvoyant  was, 
but  to  walk  in  one's  sleep  seemed  to  me  a  ghost- 
like and  uncomfortable  proceeding.  Christabel  and 
Geraldine,  though  they  talked  of  their  father,  seldom 
mentioned  their  mother.  Mr.  Massey  had  once  or 
twice  talked  to  me,  and  even  taken  me  for  a  walk 
with  his  daughters.  I  was  proud  of  his  notice,  but  I 
was  always  nervous  and  uncomfortable.  I  think  it  was 
his  eyes  that  frightened  me,  they  were  very  bright  and 
piercing.  There  were,  too,  some  curious  stories  about 
the  poet,  stories  that  made  the  girls  look  upon  him 
as  peculiar.  It  was  long  before  the  days  of  hypnotism 
and  thought-reading,  but  mesmerism  and  spiritualism 
were  very  much  in  vogue.  I  had  seen  a  man  named 
Anderson,  who  called  himself  "  The  Wizard  of  the 
North,"  perform  some  wonderful  conjuring  tricks, 
and  mesmerise  people  till  they  did  all  kinds  of  absurd 
things ;  and  when  one  of  the  Massey  girls  remarked 
that  "  papa  made  mamma  do  anything  he  wanted 
by  only  looking  at  her,"  I  thought  Gerald  Massey 
must  be  a  wizard,  and  I  did  not  care  to  be  in  his 
company,  and  would  rather  he  did  not  look  at  me. 

Mrs.  Massey  was  very  delicate,  and  it  was  said  the 


58  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

poet  did  all  his  own  housekeeping,  and  even  bought  his 
children's  clothes.  This  seemed  to  the  schoolgirls  not 
a  man's  business,  and  the  elder  girls  did  not  scruple 
to  laugh  and  jeer,  which  hurt  his  daughters'  feelings, 
making  the  elder  indignant,  and  the  younger  cry  ;  and 
I,  who  hated  such  behaviour,  and  would  not  have 
literary  people  laughed  at  on  any  account,  stoutly 
maintained  that  to  do  the  housekeeping  and  to  buy 
clothes  was  peculiar  to  poets,  and  therefore  quite 
right.  As  I  was  looked  upon  as  an  authority  on 
literary  manners,  if  not  matters,  the  chaff  ceased. 
I  was  also  fond  of  telling  fairy  tales  to  the  little 
children,  and  Geraldine  Massey,  though  about  my 
own  age,  was  very  young  for  her  years,  which  were 
not  more  than  ten  or  eleven. 

The  reason  I  was  sent  for,  I  learnt  afterwards,  was 
that  Mr.  Massey  had  said  his  wife  wished  to  see  me  ; 
but  when  we  came  she  had  lapsed  into  a  dreamy  state, 
and  was  quite  oblivious,  I  believe,  of  any  one's  pre- 
sence ;  she  noticed  neither  her  children  nor  me,  and  the 
poet  spoke  to  her  once  or  twice  before  she  answered. 

"  My  dear,  my  love,"  he  said,  "  look — this  is  little 
Miss  Hain  Friswell,  that  Geraldine  is  always  talking 
about,  who  tells  such  pretty  fairy  tales;  you  wanted  to 
see  her." 

"  Did  I  ^ "  said  Mrs.  Massey,  in  a  monotonous 
voice. 

Mr.  Massey  glanced  at  me  quickly  and  smiled ; 
then  he  gave  his  wife's  arm  a  little  shake, 


Mrs.   Massey  59 

*'  Why,  yes,  of  course  you  did  ;  you  wanted  to  thank 
her  for  being  so  kind  to  Geraldine,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  Poor  Geraldine.  I  am  glad  she's  kind,"  said 
Mrs.    Massey. 

"  Go  and  shake  hands,"  whispered  Miss  Dawson, 
giving  me  a  little  push  forward.  I  went  and  put  out 
my  hand,  and  Mr.  Massey  put  his  wife's  into  it.  I 
held  it,  it  was  cold  and  clammy  ;  the  tears  began  to 
roll  down  my  face. 

"She's  crying,"  said  Mrs.  Massey,  in  her  curiously 
far-away  voice,  that  had  a  note  of  faint  astonishment 
in  it,  though  she  did  not  look  at  me.  "  Why  does  she 
cry  ? 

"  She  is  a  very  nervous  child,  and  she  has  the  tooth- 
ache," remarked   Miss  Dawson   hurriedly. 

"  It's  not  that — it's  quite  gone — but — oh,  you  look 
so  ill,"  I  exclaimed  sorrowfully,  staring  up  into 
Mrs.  Massey's  face.  My  earnestness,  and  the  intensity 
of  my  gaze,  seemed  to  attract  her  attention  for  the  first 
time  ;  she  almost  smiled,  and  some  kind  of  feeling 
passed  over  her  impassive  face. 

"  I  shall  be  better  soon,"  she  said,  but  she  did  not 
look  at  me  ;  she  stared  over  my  head,  over  Miss 
Dawson  and  the  girls  crowding  behind  her — out 
towards  the  setting  sun  that  streamed  through  the 
schoolroom  window  her  gaze  went,  and  remained  for 
a  moment  ;  then  her  husband  touched  her  gently  and 
drew  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

"  We    must    be    going — say    good-bye,"    he    said 


6o  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

cheerfully,  and  he  opened  the  hall  door  and  led  her 
out.  She  never  came  again,  and  died  soon  after  ;  but 
how  many  weeks  or  months  I   am   not  sure. 

In  the  little  whitewashed  Baptist  Chapel  1  heard 
Thomas  Cooper,  the  atheist  and  Chartist  lecturer,  after 
he  had  turned  Christian,  and  was  trying  to  undo  all 
the  harm  he  said  he  had  done.  He  lectured  for  six 
nights,  telling  us  much  of  the  story  of  his  life.  Some 
of  us  girls  went  every  evening  ;  I  believe  I  went  to 
all  the  six  ;  I  know  I  was  at  the  last,  when  all  the 
people  rose  and  gave  him  a  regular  ovation,  almost 
cheering  him  in  their  excitement.  I,  instead  of  follow- 
ing Miss  Dawson  to  the  door,  marched  up  the  chapel, 
followed  by  several  girls,  and  as  he  came  down  the 
pulpit  steps  I  looked  up  in  his  face  and  held  out  my 
hand.  I  wanted  to  wish  him  "  God  speed  "  in  his 
good  work,  and  had  made  up  a  neat  little  speech  ; 
but  when  it  came  to  the  point  I  was  too  much  alarmed 
to  deliver  it.  Thomas  Cooper  smiled  and  took  my 
hand — it  seemed  swallowed  in  his  large  palm — and  he 
looked  down  on  me  from  what  seemed  to  me  a  great 
height  ;  but  I  doubt  if  he  was  pleased  with  the  result 
of  my  enthusiasm,  for  my  example  was  followed  by 
the  whole  of  the  people,  who  scrambled  out  of  the 
pews  and  over  the  seats  to  shake  him  by  the  hand, 
till  at  last  he  was  glad  to  take  refuge  in  the  vestry. 


CHAPTER    V 

MR.  EDWARD  DRAPER,  A  LITERARY  SOLICITOR — SOME  MEMORABLE  DAYS 
— I  LEAVE  SCHOOL — DR.  BENJAMIN  WARD  RICHARDSON — AN 
AWKWARD  POSITION — MR.  EDWARD  CLARKE — DR.  PANKHURST — A 
SUCCESSFUL    CASE — A    LARGE    CHILDREN'S    PARTY. 

ONE  of  my  father's  oldest  friends  was  a  Mr. 
Edward  Draper,  a  solicitor  who  lived  in 
Westminster,  He  was  legal  adviser  to  Albert  Smith 
and  many  literary  men — indeed,  he  was  quite  a  literary 
lawyer.  He  was  a  very  eccentric  man,  with  a  great 
amount  of  dry  humour,  which  found  its  vent  in  prose, 
or  verse,  and  in  very  clever  sketches.  He  contributed 
to  most  of  the  papers  and  magazines  of  the  day,  was 
a  friend  of  Edmund  Yates,  Sala,  Godfrey  Turner, 
Mortimer  Collins,  and  most  of  the  journalists  of  that 
time.  He  had  a  very  tall,  handsome,  cheerful  wife, 
and  they  used  to  keep  open  house.  They  were  great 
friends  of  my  father  and  mother,  and  very  kind  to  us 
children  ;  in  fact,  Mr.  Draper  would  do  the  most 
outrageous  things  to  amuse  children.  I  remember  on 
one  occasion  when  we  were  there  he  took  us  all  down 
into  the  kitchen,  and,  producing  some  small  brass 
cannon,  he  fired  holes  through  the  kitchen  door. 
Another    time     Mr.    and    Mrs.    Draper    and    several 

6i 


62  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

grown-up  people,  the  Philosopher  and  I,  sat  at  a 
round  table,  putting  our  hands  on  it,  while  two  snakes 
crawled  round  and  would  either  crawl  over  our  hands, 
or,  rearing  their  heads,  dart  out  their  tongues  and  hiss 
at  us.  I  did  not  like  this  exhibition  at  all,  and  kept 
dropping  my  hands  into  my  lap  as  soon  as  the  snakes 
came  near.  Mr.  Draper  assured  me  that  they  would 
not  hurt  me,  but  I  could  not  be  induced  to  keep  my 
hands  on  the  table — the  snakes  made  me  shudder.  But 
there  was  a  game  we  all  enjoyed,  and  that  was  when 
Mr.  Draper,  pretending  to  be  the  ring  master  of  a 
circus,  would  set  the  doors  and  folding  doors  of  his 
dining-room  open,  build  up  a  barricade  of  two  or 
three  chairs,  and  standing  in  one  room  cracking  a 
whip,  would  make  his  large  retriever  race  round  and 
round,  faster  and  faster,  leaping  over  the  chairs.  The 
dog's  barks,  the  cracking  of  the  whip — and  he  knew 
how  to  crack  it  in  the  scientific  manner — and  our  yells 
and  shouts,  made  such  a  babel  that  I  wonder  now  we 
did  not  rouse  the  indignation  of  all  Pimlico. 

I  was  at  school  three  years,  and  my  father  and 
mother  came  down  to  see  me  every  term.  In  the 
summer  my  father  would  make  up  a  party,  order  a 
certain  number  of  picnic  hampers  from  Fortnum  & 
Mason,  and  hire  an  omnibus  with  three  or  four 
horses.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Draper  and  their  friends,  Mr. 
and   Mrs.  Godfrey  Turner  and  some  of  their  friends, 

Mr.  and  Mrs,  W (whose  daughter  was  at  school 

with  me),  Andrew  Halliday,  Ashby  Sterry,  and  several 


Picnics   at   Watford  63 

other  literary  people,  would  join,  and  drive  down 
to  Watford  ;  then  we  would  have  a  picnic  in  the 
Park,  or  in  a  wood  near  the  Park,  or  a  cold 
collation  at  the  Essex  Arms.  Those  were  red- 
letter  days,    for    every    one    was  so  full    of    fun    and 

jollity.     Though   I  and  my  friend  Bessie  W did 

not  have  the  fun  of  the  drive,  we  returned  to  school 
in  the  evening  loaded  with  good  things,  besides  the 
hampers  our  mothers  always  brought  us.  What  feasts 
we  schoolgirls  had  !  at  which  I  sang  the  songs  and 
repeated  the  speeches,  as  far  as  I  could,  that  I  had 
heard  at  home  or  at  the  picnic.  I  had  very  strong 
lungs  in  spite  of  my  cough,  and  I  imitated  Mr.  Draper 
singing  "  An  'Orrible  Tale,"  and  a  parody  of  Godfrey 
Turner's  on  '*  Hoop-de-doo-dum-doo,"  Mr.  Warwick 
Reynolds's  "  Hot  Coddlings,"  and  another  gentleman 
who  sang  "  Maid  of  Athens,"  and  who,  I  declared, 
always  said  "  by  those  lips  whose  jetty  fringe."     The 

Misses  Dawson  were  generally  out  when  Bessie  W 

and  I  gave  a  supper  party,  and  our  parties  were  so 
popular  that  the  big  igirls  deigned  to  come — indeed, 
they  insisted  on  being  invited. 

Schools  in  those  days  were  not  what  they  are  now, 
and  the  Misses  Dawson,  as  1  have  said,  were  old- 
fashioned.  We  had  no  desks,  but  sat  upon  wooden 
forms  without  backs  and  wrote  with  our  paper  or 
exercise-books  lying  flat  upon  the  table.  The  only 
seats  we  had  with  backs  were  very  tall  chairs  with  very 
small  seats — about  half  the  size  of  the  top  of  an  office 


64  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

stool — and  very  high  straight  backs.  This  luxurious 
type  of  chair  was  styled  by  the  schoolgirls  "  Aunt 
Esther's  Lounge."  Who  "  Aunt  Esther  "  was  I  do 
not  know — if  she  ever  existed  is  very  doubtful  ;  but 
we  all  avoided  her  "  lounges  "  and  preferred  the  forms, 
hard  and  tiring  though  they  were.  I,  being  a  weak 
girl,  was  easily  tired,  and  in  the  three  years  I  was  at 
Watforci  I  contracted  curvature  of  the  spine,  which 
the  doctors  attributed  to  my  sitting  upon  hard  seats 
without  backs. 

Directly  it  was  found  I  was  growing  crooked  I 
was  taken  away,  and  after  much  consultation  and  a 
variety  of  opinions  I  became  one  of  Dr.  Benjamin 
Ward  Richardson's  patients,  and  was  treated  by  him 
for  seven  years,  I  shall  never  forget  those  walks  with 
my  mother  from  our  house  in  Great  Russell  Street, 
through  the  squares,  to  see  the  doctor  and  instrument 
maker.  I  hated  the  dull  streets  and  squares  and  the 
long  hot  walk  ;  but  I  had  to  take  a  certain  amount 
of  exercise,  and  the  jolting  of  omnibuses  and  cabs  was 
bad  for  me.  Dr.  Richardson  lived  in  Hinde  Street, 
Manchester  Square,  and  the  large,  gloomy  room  in 
which  my  mother  and  I  used  to  wait,  with  the  two 
tall,  melancholy  indiarubber  plants  in  the  window,  is 
indelibly  photographed  on  my  mind.  I  can  never 
imagine  why  doctors'  waiting-rooms  are  so  gloomy. 
It  is  bad  enough  to  go  to  a  doctor,  but  to  wait  in 
those  awful  rooms  is  torture.  How  well  I  can 
remember  the  dusty  Turkey  carpet,  the   heavy,  dark 


A  Depressing  Room  65 

furniture,  the  curtains  of  so  invisible  a  green  that 
they  were  almost  black  !  There  was  a  tall  bookcase 
of  medical  works — to  read  the  titles  would  have  made 
one's  hair  stand  on  end  ;  fortunately  the  bookcase 
was  locked,  or  the  patients  might  have  committed 
suicide,  or  died  of  fright,  before  the  doctor  was  ready 
for  them.  There  was  a  bust  of  Darwin  in  one  corner, 
Huxley  in  another,  and  Harvey  stood  between  the 
windows.  They  were  all  of  them  ghastly  and  very 
dusty  ;  I  thought  them  hideous  and  longed  to  smash 
them.  Upon  the  mantelpiece  were  three  massive 
bronzes  ;  the  clock  had  a  gruesome  figure  of  Time, 
which  pointed  one  bony  finger  to  the  dial,  and  leered 
at  you  with  a  deathlike  stare,  or  so  1  imagined  as  I 
prowled  round  the  room,  taking  note  of  everything. 
The  atmosphere  was  always  hot  and  airless,  for  the 
windows  never  seemed  to  be  open,  and  I  never  saw 
any  one  but  ourselves  in  the  room  ;  but  that  was 
probably  because  we  were  the  last  people  the  doctor 
saw.  The  most  lively  paper  on  the  table  was  Punch, 
and  that  we  often  found  dreary  in  the  extreme.  The 
only  sound  one  heard  in  the  silent  house  was  a  faint 
noise  that  now  and  then  penetrated  the  double  doors 
of  the  next  room,  which  was  the  doctor's  consulting- 
room,  and  to  which  I  knew  we  should  be  summoned 
sooner  or  later.  How  1  dreaded  it,  and  how  I  tried 
to  occupy  my  thoughts  !  because  I  could  not  help  being 
on  the  qui  vive  for  every  sound.  My  imagination 
was  vivid,  and   I  sometimes  thought  I  heard  a  moan 

5 


66  In   the  Sixties   and   Seventies 

or  a  cry,  and  then  I  fancied  some  of  the  toads,  cats, 
and  rabbits  were  being  vivisected,  or  that  some  human 
being  was  in  the  throes  of  death.  But  these  fears 
vanished  when  I  saw  Dr.  Richardson — he  always  looked 
so  good-tempered,  cheerful,  and  kind  ;  and  yet  I 
knew  that  when  I  went  into  that  consulting-room  I 
should  see  the  rabbits  in  hutches  outside  the  window, 
and  that  there  was  a  kind  of  aquarium,  in  'which 
several  toads  and  other  creatures  were  kept.  I 
remember  one  day  seeing  a  rabbit  lying  apparently 
dead  upon  the  table,  but  the  doctor  assured  me  that 
he  had  only  been  trying  an  anaesthetic  upon  it,  and 
that  it  would  soon  come  to  life  again  ;  he  also  said 
that  that  particular  rabbit  was  very  fond  of  anaesthetics. 
On  my  first  visit  he  ordered  me  cod-liver  oil,  and 
the  strongest  preparation  of  iron,  and  he  very  obligingly 
poured  my  mother  out  a  wine-glass  of  the  oil,  asking 
her  to  taste  it,  and  highly  recommending  it.  As  she 
refused  it,  he  said,  "  Then  I'll  drink  it  myself,"  and 
he  held  up  the  glass  to  the  light,  showing  us  what 
a  fine  colour  it  was,  and  putting  me  in  mind  of  an 
advertisement  I  saw  in  the  omnibuses,  of  a  man  holding 
up  a  glass  of  wine  and  exclaiming  "  What  !  Beeswing  !  " 
We  duly  admired  the  colour,  and  Dr.  Richardson 
drank  it  off,  and  licked  his  lips  as  if  he  had  had  a 
treat.  On  another  occasion  I  complained  that  the  iron 
turned  everything  I  wore  that  was  silver,  even  to  my 
thimble  which  I  sometimes  carried  in  my  pocket, 
black. 


Sir   Benjamin   Ward   Richardson  67 

"  That's  nothing,  my  dear  girl,"  returned  the 
doctor.  "  1  gave  one  young  lady  so  much  cod-liver 
oil  and  iron  that  it  turned  her  hair  black  ;  and  the 
oil  oozed  through  her  skin  to  such  an  extent  that 
her  relations,  and  even  her  lover,  could  not  come 
near  her." 

On  hearing  this  appalling  state  of  things  I  was 
silent.  "  Be  thankful,"  he  continued,  "  that  you  are 
too  young  to  have  a  lover,  and  that  I've  not  treated 
you  so  badly,  for  your  hair's  as  fair  as  ever." 

I  was  thankful,  and  told  him  so,  at  which  he  laughed 
heartily,  and  looked  at  me  in  a  quizzical  manner. 
I  know  he  wondered  if  I  believed  his  story,  which 
of  course  I  did  not  ;  but  I  thought  if  he  could  poke 
fun  at  me,  I  would  puzzle  him.  We  were  always 
very  good  friends  ;  he  praised  me  for  my  persever- 
ance and  attention  to  his  orders,  and  said  1  deserved 
to  get  well.  My  father  had  thought  that  riding  would 
do  me  good  ;  but  any  violent  exercise  was  stopped. 
1  was  not  allowed  to  write,  and  had  to  learn  all  my 
lessons  lying  on  my  back  on  a  board.  I  was  taken 
for  a  short  walk  every  day,  and  except  at  meals 
was  always  lying  down.  To  vary  the  monotony  of 
lying  on  my  board,  I  sometimes,  in  the  late  after- 
noon, or  evening,  lay  upon  the  drawing-room  sofa. 
I  used  to  read  a  great  deal,  and  often  dozed  off 
to  sleep.  One  evening  I  woke  up,  with  the  servant 
opening  the  drawing-room  door.  The  light  from 
the    gas    in    the    hall    streamed   into   the  dark  room  ; 


68  In    the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

she  set  a  chair  in  the  light,  and  said,  "  Will  you, 
take  a  seat  here,  sir  ?  I  will  fetch  a  lamp  and  tell 
Mr.  Friswell  you  are  here." 

She  left  the  room,  and  I  found  myself  in  an  awkward 
position.  The  room  was  very  dark,  and,  besides  that, 
the  high  end  of  the  sofa  completely  concealed  me 
from  the  visitor's  view.  Nor  could  I  see  him.  I  did 
not  know  what  to  do,  but  thought  it  best  to  lie  still 
and  try  not  to  breathe.  This  I  tried,  but  it  was 
a  failure,  for  1  found  I  had  to  draw  a  deep  breath, 
which  sounded  like  a  prolonged  sigh.  I  then  rose 
softly.  The  visitor  had  risen  also,  but  could  not 
see  me  in  the  shadow,  though  I  had  a  full  view  of 
him  where  he  stood  in  the  stream  of  light.  He  was 
a  man  about  thirty  ;  short,  pale,  and  with  a  strongly 
marked  face,  which  I  at  once  felt  confidence  in  and 
liked.  He  was  peering  about  with  rather  a  perplexed 
look  upon  his  face.  I  emerged  into  the  light,  and 
he  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  in  the  greatest  astonish- 
ment. I  moved  forward  and  held  out  my  hand  ; 
he  took  it,  still  looking  perplexed. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  I  startled  you,"  I  said  ;  "  I  tried 
not  to  breathe,  but  I   could  not  manage  it." 

"  It  would  be  difficult,"  he  replied,  and  added  : 
"  I  am  delighted  to  find  that  1  have  strayed  into 
the  castle  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  It  is  a  piece  of 
good  luck  that  I  did  not  expect." 

Like  all  very  young  people,  I  hated  to  be  laughed  at, 
so  I  made  no  reply.     He  then  said  : 


Sir   Edward   Clarke  69 

"  I  see  I  am  making  a  mistake,  and  that  you  must 
be  the  Fair  One  with  the  Golden  Locks." 

"  My  name,"  I  said  gravely,  "  is  Laura  Friswell." 

"  And  I  am  Edward  Clarke,  at  your  service,"  he 
replied,  with  a  very  polite  bow. 

This  was  my  first  introduction  to  Mr.  Edward 
Clarke  (now  Sir  Edward  Clarke),  who  afterwards 
became  a  frequent  visitor.  We  all  grew  fond  of 
the  clever  young  barrister,  and  my  father,  who  was 
always  enthusiastic,  used  to  declare  that  he  should 
live  to  see  Mr.  Clarke  upon  the  woolsack.  I  used 
to  be  very  much  amused  at  his  pungent,  sarcastic 
talk,  and  his  flattering  attention  to  the  ladies. 

At  this  time  I  remember  an  incident  that  greatly 
impressed  me.  It  was  a  sunny  evening  in  early 
summer,  and  my  mother  was  sitting  at  needlework, 
near  one  of  the  three  windows  in  the  drawing-room, 
while  my  father  was  talking  to  a  Dr.  Pankhurst  (a 
barrister),  a  great  advocate  for  the  "Women's  Rights  " 
movement,  and  a  lecturer  on  the  subject.  He  was 
a  very  small  man  and  very  enthusiastic.  He  talked 
well,  but  had  unfortunately  a  very  high,  squeaky  voice. 
He  wanted  my  father  and  mother  to  go  to  a  lecture 
on  Women's  Rights,  given  by  Miss  Lydia  Becker, 
but  my  mother  shook  her  head  and  declined  to  be 
interested — she  was  so  "  under  the  rule  of  a  man," 
Dr.  Pankhurst  averred  ;  while  my  father  laughed  and 
pooh-poo'^'  '.  the  idea  of  women's  rights  or  wrongs, 
and  advised  Dr.  Pankhurst  to  marry  Miss  Becker. 


yo  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"I  will  !  "  he  cried,  becoming  very  heated  ;  starting 
out  of  his  chair  and  rising  up  on  his  toes  in  his 
excitement,  he  dashed  the  clenched  knuckles  of  his 
right  hand  into  the  palm  of  his  left,  and  shouted, 
"  Friswell,  TU  convince  you,  or  I'll  annihilate  you  !  " 

My  mother  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter,  for  my 
father  looked  as  if  he  could  have  picked  up  the  little 
man  and  dropped  him  out  of  window.  Fortunately 
a  diversion  was  created  at  this  moment  ;  the  door 
was  thrown  open  by  the  servant,  and  Mr.  Clarke 
entered,  exclaiming  jubilantly  : 

"  Congratulate  me  !     I've  got  my  woman  off!  " 

My  mother  seemed  taken  aback,  and  shook  hands 
with  him  in  silence,  but  I  jumped  out  of  my  seat  and 
cried  : 

"  What  ? — that  murderess  !  Then  you'd  no  right 
to  do  such  a  thing  !  " 

Every  one  was  thunderstruck  at  my  vehemence,  and 
Mr,   Clarke  was  speechless. 

"  You  know  you  said  you  thought  she  did  it,"  I 
explained  more  quietly. 

"  Oh  yes,  she  undoubtedly  did  it,"  returned  Mr. 
Clarke  cheerfully. 

"  Then  I  call  it  very  wicked  of  you  to  help  her  to 
escape  !  "  said  1  indignantly.  Every  one  laughed,  and 
Mr.   Clarke  answered  : 

"  I  was  bound  to  do  the  best  I  could  for  my  client. 
You  must  blame  the  jury  who  acquitted  her.  And 
then    you  know    I  believe    in    Women's  Rights  ;  her 


The  Advocate  of  Sinners  71 

husband  was   a    brute,   and   she   poisoned   him.     That 
was  quite  as  it  should  be — now,  wasn't  it,  Pankhurst  ? " 

But  the  little  man  was  silent,  and  after  some  more 
talk  about  the  case  the  conversation  drifted  into  happier 
subjects. 

But  1  heard  none  of  it,  I  was  lost  in  thought  :  it 
was  such  a  new  idea  to  me  that  lawyers  should  defend 
people  they  knew  to  be  criminals,  and  to  the  extent 
of  saving  them  from  death,  that  it  set  me  pondering, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  I  could  see  the  matter 
in  the  right  light.  I  was  not  allowed  to  read  the 
newspapers,  so  it  was  only  from  the  conversation  of 
my  elders  that  I  heard  of  the  case.  I  know  my  opinion 
of  Mr.  Clarke  was  considerably  altered  by  what  I 
considered  his  want  of  morality  in  getting  a  criminal 
off,  and  rejoicing  that  he  had  done  so.  For  a  long 
time  I  never  saw  him  without  wondering  what  dread- 
ful character  he  had  been  defending,  and  I  used  to 
be  astonished  that  he  could  laugh  and  sing  sentimental 
songs  when  he  knew  so  much  wickedness  went  on. 
His  neat  appearance  and  the  gardenia  in  his  button- 
hole were  also  a  surprise  to  me  ;  I  believe  I  thought 
sackcloth  and  ashes  would  have  been  more  appropriate 
for  the  advocate  of  sinners.  1  wondered  how  his 
wife  liked  his  having  such  clients,  and  I  had  a  great 
mind  to  ask  her  opinion  on  the  subject  of  defending 
criminals  ;  but  I  noticed  she  was  always  very  much 
wrapped  up  in  her  children  and  her  house,  and  I 
therefore    came   to   the    conclusion    that   she    took   no 


72  In   the  Sixties  and   Seventies 

interest  in  such  matters,  and  would  look  upon  me  as 
peculiar  ;  and  if  there  was  anything  I  dreaded  it  was 
to  be  thought  unlike  other  girls. 

It  was  somewhere  about  this  time  that  my  father 
gave  a  large  juvenile  party,  to  which  many  very  well 
known  people  came  and  danced  and  sang,  even  dressing 
up  to  amuse  us.  I  remember  Mr.  Warwick  Reynolds 
dressed  up  as  a  woman  (my  grandmother  lending  him 
a  dress  and  an  old  bonnet  and  shawl)  to  sing  "  Hot 
Coddlings,"  while  Mr.  Ashby  Sterry,  a  very  handsome 
young  man  (like  the  portraits  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney), 
danced  a  polka  with  me,  stooping  down  to  my  height  ; 
how  he  managed  to  dance  with  his  legs  so  bent  I 
cannot  imagine,  but  I  know  he  did  it  very  successfully. 
We  youngsters  were  delighted,  and  it  was  one  of  the 
features  of  the  evening.  My  father  was  particularly 
fond  of  cold  punch,  and  had  made  some  for  the  elders 
of  the  party,  while  home-made  lemonade  was  provided 
for  the  children.  By  some  mistake  we  tasted  the 
punch,  and  after  that  we  would  have  "  the  other 
lemonade,"  as  we  called  it  ;  the  waiters  artfully  and 
fortunately  diluted  it,  but  when  the  grown  people  went 
down  to  supper  the  punch  was  conspicuous  by  its 
absence.  Only  a  few  months  ago,  at  a  party  given  by 
the  Women  Journalists  to  welcome  their  President, 
Lady  Sarah  Wilson,  I  met  Mr.  Sterry  ;  we  had  not 
seen  each  other  for  many  years,  but  he  recalled  that 
children's  party,  and  reminded  me  of  the  incident  of 
the  cold  punch. 


CHAPTER    VI 

"THE  BAYARD  SERIES" — ANECDOTES  OF  MR.  SWINBURNE — SWINBURNE 
COMES  TO  TEA — THE  RALSTON  RUSSIAN  STORIES — MR.  SWINBURNE 
AGAIN. 

NOT  being  able  to  go  to  school,  1  had  a  governess, 
a  very  good-looking  young  lady,  who  was 
fond  of  literature,  and  delighted  to  see  some  of  the 
celebrated  men  and  women  who  came  to  our  house  in 
Great  Russell  Street.  Miss  W often  acted  as  secre- 
tary to  my  father,  who  was  at  this  time  editing  "  The 
Bayard  Series,"  a  set  of  pleasure  books  of  literature. 
The  story  of  the  Chevalier  Bayard,  being  the  first 
volume  of  the  series,  gave  it  its  name  ;  many  well- 
known  men  and  women  wrote  essays,  or  introductions, 
to  the  various  volumes,  and  my  father  had  asked 
Swinburne  to  write  an  essay  on  Coleridge,  as  an  in- 
troduction to  Christabel,  and  the  lyrical  and  imaginative 
poems  of  Coleridge.  Swinburne  was  then  at  the 
height  of  his  fame,  and  my  governess  and  I  were  most 
anxious  to  see  him. 

We  had  heard  many  stories  about  him  from  gushing 
young  ladies  and  enthusiastic  old  ones.  One  young 
lady,  I  remember,  declared  that  in  her  opinion  poets 
should  be  exempt  from  all  criticism,  that  they  should 

73 


74  In   the   Sixties   and  Seventies 

not  be  judged  by  ordinary  standards,  nor  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  mundane  affairs,  "  Fancy,"  she 
said,  "  such  a  genius  as  Swinburne  opening  his  own 
street  door  ! — why,  the  Angel  Gabriel  ought  to  descend 
and  do  it  for  him."  My  father  laughed,  while  I 
stared  and  wondered  ;  it  was  some  time  before  it 
dawned  upon  me  that  it  was  a  silly,  exaggerated  way 
of  talking. 

I  do  not  know  if  Mr.  Swinburne  would  like  to 
be  called  a  man  of  genius  ;  it  would  certainly  appear 
that  he  objected  to  being  considered  "  a  literary  man," 
for  he  once  publicly  said  that  he  was  not  a  literary 
man,  and  he  would,  rather  than  otherwise,  cast  scorn 
upon  living  by  his  pen.  But  I  have  noticed  that 
those  who  are  so  indignant  at  being  considered  to 
live  by  their  pens  do  not  refuse  the  honorarium 
offered  by  the  publisher,  but  on  the  contrary  are 
particularly  good  men  of  business.  But  this  they 
no  doubt  do  purely  for  the  good  of  us  unfortunate 
creatures  who  write  for  a  livino^  as  well  as  for  Fame. 

The  eulogies  lavished  upon  the  poet  were  great, 
and  his  genius  had  no  more  sincere  admirer  than  my 
father,  who  writes  of  him  as  "  a  poet  of  rare  order — 
forcible  and  free,  full  of  fire,  dash,  feeling,  and  expres- 
sion. A  poet  who  at  one  leap  sat  himself  at  the  side 
of  the  crowned  singers  ;  who  divides  Olympus  with 
Tennyson  and  disputes  Empire  with   Browning," 

This  may  seem  somewhat  extravagant  language  ; 
but    all    who    admire    Mr.    Swinburne's    genius    will 


''An   Intellectual   Giant*'  75 

admit  that  it  is  true  and  well  deserved.  As  I  have 
said,  my  father  was  an  enthusiast,  and,  according  to 
Mr.  Westland  Marston  and  others,  he  was  no  mean 
poet  himself;  he  was,  too,  always  generous  in  his 
admiration  of  others.  In  an  essay  on  Mr.  Swinburne 
I  find  that  he  condemned  and  deplored  the  poet's 
want  of  Christianity  ;  but  I  have  never  heard  him 
speak  more  highly  of  the  quality  of  brain  of  any 
one  than  he  did  of  Swinburne's. 

As  the  photograph  of  the  head  of  a  person  gives 
little  idea  of  height,  and  as  I  had  always  heard  the 
poet  spoken  of  as  an  "  intellectual  giant,"  I  drew  my 
own  picture  of  this  wonderful  genius,  and  the  poet 
was  not  only  a  giant  in  intellect. 

My  father  made  this  announcement  at  dinner  one 
day  :  "  Mr.  Swinburne  is  coming  to  see  me  to- 
morrow." 

My  governess  exclaimed  :  "  Oh,  do  let  us  see 
him  1  " 

"  Do  !  "   I  echoed  fervently. 

"  No,  no,"  said  my  father,  "  it  is  business  ;  we  are 
going  to  talk  of  Coleridge.  He  must  be  shown  into 
the   study." 

"  What   time    is  he   coming  ^ "   asked  my   mother. 

"  Between  four  and  five." 

"  Then  he  can  easily  have  tea  with  us,  and  you 
can  both  retire  to  the  study  afterwards." 

'*Yes,"  said  Miss  W .    "  Now  don't  be  obdurate, 

Mr.  Friswell." 


76  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  But  I  do  not  think  Mr.  Swinburne  likes  ladies' 
society  ;  they  make  him  nervous,  he  says," 

Miss  W laughed.     "Oh,  if  he  is  a  mysogynist, 

that's  just  the  reason  we  ought  to  see  him,  isn't  it, 
Mrs.   Friswell  ?  " 

My  mother  agreed.  "  Leave  it  to  me,"  she  said, 
"  I'll  manage  it." 

My  father  laughed.  "  I  believe  he'll  run  away," 
he   said. 

"  Oh  no,"  replied  my  mother  ;  *'  he's  a  gentleman  ; 
he  won't  do  that." 

"  Very  well,  if  you  are  so  determined,"  said  my 
father,  in  a  resigned  manner ;  and  then  it  was  that 
he  turned  to  me  and  remarked,  "  It  is  a  mistake  to 
know  public  people,  LoUie." 

I  did  not  agree,  for  I  wanted  to  see  and  know  my 
favourite   authors   and   actors,   and    I   said   so. 

"  Why  destroy  your  illusions  ?  "  asked  my  father. 
"  That  author,  whose  characters  say  such  charmingly 
brilliant  things,  whose  men  are  athletes,  or  scholars  full 
of  epigram,  is  himself  a  nervous  little  man  with  sloping 
shoulders.  There's  no  brilliant  conversation  in  him  ; 
he  looks  melancholy  and  bored  in  company.  Read 
and  enjoy  his  books,  but  don't  wish  to  see  him  ;  you 
would    not  like    it,    nor  would   he." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  you  won't  let  me  read  Mr. 
Swinburne's  books  ;  you  took  the  book  away,  just  as 
you  did  when  I  was  reading  Curiosities  of  Crime.'' 

"  That,"  said  my  father,  "  was  the  Newgate  Calendar." 


A   Well   Known   Poet  77 

He  paused,  and  added  thoughtfully,  "  I  do  not  know 
that  1  would  not  rather  you  read  it  than  Swinburne's 
poems  ;  but  when  I  spoke  of  authors,  I  meant  authors 
in  general,  and  not  any  one  in   particular." 

I    was  still  thinking  of  the   poet. 

"  What  does  he  mean   by 

"Come  down  and  redeem  us  from  virtue, 
Our  Lady  of  Pain  ?  " 

"  What  indeed  ?  "  said  my  father. 

"  That  was  the  last  line  I  read,"  I  said,  "  and  I 
do  want  to  know  who  our  Lady  of  Pain  is." 

Nobody  seemed  inclined  to  enlighten  me,  and  I 
knew  by  the  way  the  conversation  was  changed  it 
was  no  use  to  ask  again.  But  I  was  determined  to 
see  this  wonderful  man  ;  all  I  had  heard  about  his 
nervousness  made  me  pity  him,  for  1  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  terribly  nervous.  My  father,  mother,  and 
sometimes  my  governess  used  to  scold  me  about  it, 
telling  me,  "  If  I  would  sit  in  a  corner  dumb,  I  should 
be  taken  for  a  fool." 

The  day  Swinburne  was  to  come  I  had  neuralgia 
very,  very  badly,  and  was  confined  to  my  bed  ;  but  I 
insisted  on  getting  up,  and  a  maid  dressed  me,  for  in 
those  days  I  could  do  little  for  myself.  I  went  down 
to  the  drawing-room,  where  there  was  a  glorious  fire, 
and  seated  myself  on  a  low  stool  by  the  side  of  the 
hearth.  The  pain  in  my  face  and  head  was  terrible, 
but  I  was  determined  not   to   give   in  ;    I   even   made 


7  8  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

a  feeble  little  joke,  and  said  "I  thought  /  was  'our 
Lady  of  Pain,'  "  at  which  my  governess  looked  shocked, 
and  advised  me  not  to  say  so  to  my  father  or  mother. 
"  Then  tell  me  who  she  is,"  said  I  ;  but  either  she 
could  not,  or  would  not,  and  she  busied  herself  with 
the  cups  and  saucers.  My  mother  entered,  and 
presently  we  heard  a  cab  draw  up  and  a  sounding 
knock  at  the  door,  then  steps  up  the  stairs,  and  the 
door  was  thrown  open  and  the  maid  said,  *'  Mr. 
Swinburne." 

A  little  man  walked  straight  into  the  room ;  his 
head,  which  was  crowned  by  a  quantity  of  auburn  hair, 
was  held  high,  his  eyes  stared  straight  in  front  of 
him,  and  he  was  evidently  quite  unconscious  that  he 
was  not  alone  in  the  room.  My  mother  walked 
forward  and  held  out  her  hand.  He  started,  and 
dropped  his  hat  ;  my  governess  went  forward  and 
picked  it  up  ;    he  almost  snatched  it  from  her. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  said  my  mother,  indicating 
a  chair  which  Miss  W drew  up  to  the  tea-table. 

"  I — I  think  there  must  be  some  mistake,"  murmured 
Mr.  Swinburne. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  my  mother  ;  "  we  were  expecting 
you  ;  Mr.  Friswell  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  Do 
let  me  give  you  some  tea." 

Mr.  Swinburne  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  chair. 
He  bent  slightly  forward,  his  arms  resting  on  his  knees, 
his  hat  balanced  between  his  fingers,  and  he  kept 
swinging  it  backwards  and  forwards,  just  as  I  had  seen 


Algernon   Charles    Swinburne  79 

Mr.  Toole  do  in  a  farce  ;  he  dropped  it  and  picked  it 
up  several  times.  I  think  he  was  about  twenty-nine 
or  thirty  years  old  at  this  time — not  more  than  five 
feet  six  in  height,  and  he  had  that  peculiar  pallor 
which  goes  with  auburn  hair  ;  and  this  paleness  was 
heightened  by  study,  enthusiasm,  and  the  fierce, 
rebellious  spirit  which  seemed  to  animate  that  fragile 
body,  and  which  glows  and  burns  in  his  writings. 

My    mother    and  Miss  W did  all  they  could 

to  put  him  at  ease,  and  I  sat  and  repented  that  I 
had  ever  wished  to  see  him,  for  I  pitied  him  intensely, 
he  seemed  so  very  nervous.      He  dropped  his  hat  so 

many  times  that  Miss  W ,  when  he  rose  to  hand 

me  some  bread-and-butter,  took  the  hat  and  hid  it  in 
a  recess. 

My  father  now  appeared,  and  by  his  conversational 
powers  and  tact  soon  set  Mr.  Swinburne  quite  at  his 
ease.  He  ceased  to  fidget,  and  talked  of  Coleridge 
and  other  poets  in  a  most  interesting  manner — to 
hear  him  and  my  father  was  an  intellectual  treat.  Mr. 
Swinburne  became  all  fire  and  enthusiasm,  and  looked 
and  seemed  quite  a  different  man  ;  we  were  all  charmed 
with  him.  He  stayed  from  two  to  three  hours,  and 
it  was  not  at  all  too  long,  and  he  left  saying  he 
would  soon  come  again. 

On  another  occasion  I  saw  Mr.  Swinburne  at  St. 
George's  Hall,  where  most  of  the  literary  people 
of  the  time  were  gathered,  by  invitation,  to  hear  Mr. 
Ralston  tell  some  Russian   stories.    The   poet  was  in 


8o  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

the  front  row,  surrounded  by  a  bevy  of  the  youth  and 
beauty  of  the  time.  These  young  women  were  all  a 
good  many  years  my  seniors.  They  were  admirers  of 
the  Pre-Raphaelite  school,  and  were  devoted  to  Rossetti, 
Burne-Jones,  and  William  Morris.  They  dressed  in 
limp  and  dowdy  greens,  and  wore  lace  that  looked  as 
if  it  would  be  all  the  better  for  a  good  wash,  turned 
up  their  eyes  and  gushed  when  they  talked,  and  did 
their  hair  in  what  I  heard  a  lady  of  the  time  call 
"  the  bird's-nest  fashion."  This  was,  in  a  state  of 
great  confusion  all  over  the  head  and  right  down  to 
the  eyebrows,  and  then,  as  if  to  prevent  its  flying  away, 
three  rows  of  velvet,  dotted  with  jet  or  steel,  bound 
it  down.  Those  were  the  days  when  to  be  eccentric 
in  dress  was  thought  a  mark  of  genius,  and  these 
young  ladies,  being  admirers  of  the  Rossetti  and  Burne- 
Jones  types  of  beauty,  were  pale  and  willowy  in  the 
extreme.  I  was  not  stout,  nor  very  tall,  and  decidedly 
pale  in  those  days,  but  I  used  to  feel  gigantic  by  the 
side  of  them  ;  and  I  think,  with  my  youthfully  outspoken 
manner,  my  short  skirts,  and  quantity  of  flowing  hair, 
they  looked  on  me  as  a  young  savage,  or,  worse  still, 
a  Philistine.  They  attracted  and  interested  me  very 
much,  but  they  were  never  very  cordial  to  me  ;  and 
though  I  knew  them  well — that  is,  we  often  met — 
yet  if  I  joined  them  they  always  left  ofl^  turning  up 
their  eyes  and  clasping  their  hands,  and  said  nothing 
interesting  at  all. 

On   this   particular   evening   1    was   anxious   to  join 


Some   Esthetic   Young   Ladies  8i 

them,  for  they  seemed  to  be  having  what  we  should 
now  call  "  a  good  time."  They  were  attracting  a  great 
deal  of  attention,  which  I  had  been  taught  was  bad 
style.  The  poet  was  laughing  very  much,  and  so 
were  his  satellites,  but  I  had  an  idea  they  were  laughing 
at,  instead  of  with,  Mr.  Swinburne  ;  and  if  there  was 
anything  I  resented  more  than  another,  it  was  for  any 
one  to  laugh  at  a  man  of  letters.  I  had  scarcely  read 
a  line  of  Mr.  Swinburne's  poems,  but  to  me  he  was 
a  great  genius,  and  therefore  to  be  treated  with 
deference.  Next  to  geniuses  I  hated  women  to  appear 
ridiculous  and  to  be  laughed  at,  and  I  wished  those 
girls  were  not  so  limp  in  appearance  and  floppy  in 
manner.  I  was  sure  they  would  not  be  if  they  could 
hear  what  people  said,  and  I  knew  the  effect  I  had 
on  them.  I  knew  that  if  I  went  there  they  would 
sit  up  and  behave  in  a  more  dignified  manner.  So  I 
rose  to  join  them,  when  a  well-known  man  said  to 
my  father,  in  what  he  meant  for  a  whisper  : 

"  Don't  let  your  daughter  go  over  there,  Friswell." 

My  father  immediately  told  me  to  stay  where  I 
was,  so  I  re-seated  myself ;  but,  remembering  the 
poet's  dislike  to  ladies'  society,  I  made  one  more  effort 
to  rescue  him,  and  whispered  : 

*'  Do  ask  Mr.  Swinburne  to  come  over  here  to  us, 
papa  ;  he  won't  feel  nervous  then,  and  people  won't 
whisper  and  stare  so." 

But  my  father  went  on  talking  with  his  friends,  so 

my  good  intentions  were  frustrated. 

6 


82  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

My  attention  was  soon  riveted  upon  the  platform, 
for  Mr.  Ralston  had  come  in,  and  there  was  a  storm 
of  applause.  The  Russian  stories  were  a  great  success. 
I  especially  liked  one  about  a  witch  whose  room  was 
ornamented  with  the  skulls  of  her  victims.  The 
entertainment  was  repeated  several  times  ;  but  I  fancy 
this  first  night  was  the  night,  certainly  as  far  as  the 
audience  went,  for  most,  if  not  all,  the  celebrated 
men  and  women  in  literature,  art,  and  the  drama 
were  there. 

The  next  time  I  saw  the  poet  was  so  many 
years  afterwards  that  I  do  not  like  to  count  them. 
It  was  on  Wimbledon  Common,  where  he  walks  twice 
daily.  It  was  a  lovely  summer  morning,  between 
ten  and  eleven  o'clock.  I  was  sitting  on  a  seat  with 
a   friend,   when    she   said  : 

"  Look,   do   you   know  who  this  is  ^  " 

I  looked  up,  and  saw  a  thin  little  man,  with  almost 
white  hair,  his  arms  hanging  at  his  sides,  a  soft  felt 
hat  rather  on  the  back  of  his  head,  walking  with  head 
held  up  and  back,  and  eyes  gazing  straight  in  front, 
seemingly  unconscious  of  what  they  saw.  Since  last 
we  met  he  had  very  much  altered,  but  I  knew  him 
at  once,  and  I  recalled  him  again  as  I  first  saw  him. 

The  Common  and  the  sunlight  faded  from  my  sight, 
and  I  saw  the  interior  of  a  London  drawing-room  on 
a  dull  afternoon.  Four  people  were  sitting  round  a 
large  fire,  while  a  girl  sat  with  her  head  leaning  against 
the  jamb  of  the  marble  mantelpiece,  gazing  at  them. 


A   Vision   of  the   Past  83 

What  a  picture  they  made — the  poet  with  his  bright 
hair,  pale  intellectual  face,  and  glowing  eyes ;  my  father 
with  his  distinguished  manner,  iron-grey  hair,  bright 
complexion,  and  merry  blue  eyes  ;  my  pretty  young 
governess,  and  my  gentle,  placid  mother,  whose  dreamy 
manner  had  given  place  to  one  of  keen  interest  as  she 
listened  to  Swinburne  talking  of  Coleridge.  I  could 
recall  his  gestures,  his  eloquence,  almost  hear  again 
the  tones  of  his  voice,  and  feel  his  enthusiasm.  1 
know  that  our  deep  attention  spurred  him  on,  that 
my  father's  apt  comments  still  further  encouraged 
him  ;  that  he  loved  his  art  and  was  carried  away  by 
it  there  was  no  doubt.  He  said  he  would  be  sure 
to  come  again,  "and  soon," — but,  alas  !  there  are  red- 
letter  days  in  one's  life  that  never  return.  As  I  sat 
on  the  Common  that  morning  I  realised  strongly  and 
sadly,  as  I  have  so  often,  how  inexorable  Time  is, 
and  I  toJd  myself  that  ail  the  people  whose  shadows 
I  was  recalling  were  dead — as  dead  as  my  father,  who 
had  been  in  his  grave  for  twenty  years. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  THE  ANGEL  EPPS  " — A  GLIMPSE  OF  MRS.  LANGTRY — NICKNAMES — MR. 
DU  MAURIER  ENJOYS  A  HEARTY  LAUGH — MRS.  DU  MAURIER  AND 
HER  husband's  SKETCHES — THE  LAST  TIME  I  SAW  MR.  DU 
MAURIER. 

AT  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing  there  lodged 
over  Pears'  Soap  shop  in  Great  Russell  Street, 
Bloomsbury,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Du  Maurier  ;  and 
at  the  same  time,  or  it  may  be  a  little  later,  Henry 
Irving,  now  Sir  Henry  Irving,  had  apartments  near 
the  top  of  the  street  ;  and  Alma  Tadema,  now  Sir 
Alma  Tadema,  came  courting  his  charming  wife,  who 
was  then  Miss  Laura  Epps,  or,  as  some  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  people  called  her,  *'  the  Angel  Epps."  My 
governess  and  I  often  saw  Sir  Alma  Tadema's  brougham 
with  the  artist  in  it,  as  it  drove  up  the  street.  Miss 
Epps  was  of  course  well  known.  I  remember  meeting 
her  at  the  Academy,  in  a  gooseberry-coloured  cashmere 
gown  of  the  very  limp  and  aesthetic  order,  a  white 
tulle  hat  with  a  wisp  of  white  tulle,  which  came  from 
the  back  of  the  hat,  wound  round  her  neck,  and  a 
lace  cape,  that  the  old  lady  I  was  with  said  "  would 
be  all  the  better  for  a  little  soap  and  water."  This 
was  not  in   my  opinion    an    angelic-looking    costume, 

84 


A   Tea^Party  85 

and  I  wondered  why  they  called  her  "the  Angel  Epps," 
and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  must  be  because 
of  her  hair,  which  glistened  like  a  halo  and  was  of  the 
colour  which  has  since  been  called  "  Titian  red." 

That  same  afternoon  I  had  the  pleasure  of  catching 
a  gHmpse  of  Mrs,  Langtry,  then  at  the  height  of 
her  fame.  How  the  people  pushed  and  crushed, 
getting  up  on  seats  to  look  at  her  !  I,  urged  thereto 
by  the  lady  I  was  with,  got  up  on  a  seat,  and  over 
the  heads  of  the  people  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  lady 
with  brown  hair,  a  pale  face,  and  large  grey  eyes. 

I  remember  very  well  the  first  time  I  saw  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  George  Du  Maurier.  It  was  at  one  of 
my  mother's  tea-parties,  where  so  many  literary  and 
other  friends  dropped  in.  Mr.  Du  Maurier  was 
suffering  very  much  from  his  eyes,  and  wore  a  green 
shade  over  them  ;  he  seemed  very  quiet  and  depressed, 
which  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  but  fortunately 
I  was  destined  to  make  him  laugh  heartily,  and  he 
declared  '*  a  hearty  laugh  did  him  more  good  than 
any  amount  of  medicine." 

It  happened  in  this  way.     A    Dr.   F ,    a    very 

charming  man,  was  a  constant  visitor  at  our  house. 
He  and  his  wife  lived  close  by,  and  scarcely  a  day 
passed  but  one  or  both  used  to  drop  in  to  see  us. 
I  can  see  him  now  in  my  mind's  eye,  as  I  saw  him 
then  entering  the  room  ;  a  tall,  lank  man,  with  an 
M.B.  waistcoat,  a  professional  look,  and  spectacles 
pf  the   sort  called  "  nose-nippers."     He  was  received 


86  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

with  acclamation  by  my  father,  and  he  went  round 
shaking  every  one  effusively  by  the  hand  (to  his 
especial  favourites  he  always  put  both  his  hands  round 
their  one)  ;  he  smiled  in  a  delighted  way,  and  said 
something  comphmentary  to  every  one,  nearly  always 
prefacing  his  speech  with  "  God  bless  me  !  "  while  his 
eyeglasses  dangled  about  in  the  most  lively  manner, 
and,  catching  the  sunlight,  reflected  a  dozen  little, 
broken,  dancing  lights  upon  the  ceiling. 

Captain  and  Mrs.  Burton,  Mr.  Du  Maurier,  every 
one,  smiled  at  and  welcomed  him,  and  having  gone  the 
round  of  the  room  he  finally  subsided  on  the  sofa 
near  Mrs.  Burton.  I  can  hear  the  buzz  of  conversa- 
tion, and  even  catch  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Burton's 
silvery  laughter  ;  how  handsome  and  charming  she 
was,  and  how  I  admired  her,  and  wished  my  hair  was 
dark  like  hers  and  my  mother's  !  Then  I  turned  my 
eyes  to  Mr.  Du  Maurier  ;  I  can  see  him  sitting  with 
his  back  to  the  light,  silent  and  sad,  or  so  I  thought  ; 
I  always  pitied  sick  or  afflicted  people.  It  was  then 
that  I  rose  to  hand  him  some  bread-and-butter,  when 

up  jumped  Dr.  F ,  and  taking  the  plate  from  me, 

said  : 

"  God  bless  me  !  Petrarch  cannot  allow  his  Laura 
to  hand  the  bread-and-butter." 

I  was  completely  nonplussed.  I  had  never,  to  my 
knowledge,  heard  of  Petrarch,  and  thought  the  Doctor 
must  have  said,  or  at  any  rate  meant,  Patriarch. 
Now  Dr.  F ,  though  about  forty-five  or  fifty,  and 


'*My   Patriarch*'  87 

therefore  quite  old  to  a  young  person,  was  always  in 
such  a  radiant  humour  that  he  did  not  seem  old.  He 
was  clean  shaven,  and  his  hair  was  rather  long,  lank, 
and  very  black.  He  was  not  strong,  or  he  would 
have  been  a  very  active  man  ;  as  it  was,  his  activity 
took  the  direction  of  words,  and  in  a  very  amusing 
way.  He  used  to  speak  with  a  curious  little  catch  in 
his  voice,  as  if  his  eagerness  made  him  out  of  breath, 
which  I  really  think  was  the  case.  Now  this  gentle- 
man was  not  at  all  my  idea  of  a  Patriarch  ;  I  could 
not  picture  him  either  as  Abraham,  Isaac,  or  Jacob,  who 
should  have  white  hair,  flowing  beards,  and  a  serene 
and  stately  manner.  As  I  sat  at  my  mother's  side  I 
was  very  much  puzzled,  and,  watching  my  opportunity, 
when  every  one  was  busy  talking  I  whispered  : 

"  What    does   Dr.  F mean   by  calling    himself 

my  Patriarch  ?  " 

My  mother  turned  red  and  then  began  to  laugh  ; 
she  was  of  course  asked  what  the  joke  was,  and  had 
to  explain.  Every  one  was  vastly  amused,  especially 
Mr.  Du  Maurier,  who  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  heartily,  declaring  it  was  good  enough  for 
Punch,  and  thereby  causing  me  to  avoid  that  periodical 
for  a  very  long  time  ;  for  if  there  was  anything  young 
people  of  thai  time  hated,  it  was  to  be  "  put  into  the 
papers,"  and  I  had  several  lively  recollections  of 
appearing  in  print.  I  looked  askance  at  Mr. 
Du  Maurier,  and  retired  to  my  favourite  recess,  where 
Dr,   F ultimately  found  me,  and  told    me   about 


88  In   the   Sixties   and  Seventies 

Petrarch,  and  advised  me  to  read  his  sonnets  ;  but  for 
ever  after  he  was  called  *'my  Patriarch,"  or  "Petrarch," 
and  to  him   I   was  always  "  Petrarch's  Laura." 

There  was  not  much  leisure  for  a  busy  author  or 
artist  in  those  days,  but  there  was  more  than  there 
seems  now,  for  people  did  not  make  such  a  business 
of  amusement  ;  they  found  time  to  call  informally 
upon  their  friends,  which  is  really  in  my  opinion  the 
pleasantest  way  of  visiting,  for  the  large  entertainments 
that  are  now  so  fashionable  are  very  boring.  People 
have  no  time  to  become  more  than  acquaintances,  so 
there  is  no  friendship  as  there  was  in  the  old  days  ; 
one  sees  nothing  of  one's  host  and  hostess,  and  hears 
no  talk  except  upon  trivialities  ;  in  fact,  the  art  of 
conversation  is  fast  dying  out,  for  how  can  one  talk 
amongst  an  ever-increasing  crowd,  who  stay  a  little 
while  and  move  on  to  another  entertainment  ? 

I  fancy  Mr.  Du  Maurier  was  not  a  very  active  man. 
I  believe  bodily  exercise  was  irksome  to  him  ;  like 
all  creative  people,  he  was  quiet  and  contemplative. 
I  used  to  think  his  health  was  not  good,  but  I  believe 
that  his  eyes  were  the  chief  worry,  and  they  I  am  sure 
troubled  him  very  much  at  times.  My  father  very 
often  went  in  to  see  him,  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  him, 
and  even  after  the  Du  Mauriers  had  left  the  neighbour- 
hood he  was  as  frequent  a  visitor  as  his  very  much 
occupied  time  would  permit.  My  father  was  a  very 
sociable  man,  and  would  always  find  time  to  visit  a  friend, 
and  even  to  write  an  autograph  letter  or  a  verse  for  an 


''This   is   Property''  89 

album  ;  he  fancied  people  wished  to  compliment  him 
when  they  asked  for  his  autograph,  and  would  go  out 
of  his  way  to  gratify  them  ;  he  was  rather  amused  at 
the  fuss  people  made  over  such  small  matters,  and  not 
a  little  disgusted  at  what  he  considered  the  commercial 
spirit  of  the  age,  though  it  was  nothing  in  those  days 
to  what  it  is  now.  I  remember  his  coming  home 
one  evening  and  telling  my  mother  the  following  story 
with  a  mixture  of  amusement  and  disgust. 

"  I  heard  that  Du  Maurier  was  ill,  so  I  called  there  ; 
I  found  he  had  a  cold,  but  was  much  better.  He 
was  up  and  in  the  drawing-room  ;  there  were  several 
people  there.  1  had  a  long  conversation  with  Mrs. 
Du  Maurier  about  her  husband's  work  ;  said  how 
much  I  admired  it,  and  so  on.  We  were  standing 
near  a  cabinet.  Suddenly  she  pulled  open  a  long, 
deep  drawer.  '  Look  !  '  she  said,  '  these  are  all 
his  sketches,  every  single  one  he  has  ever  done  ;  would 
you  like  to  look  over  them  .? '  I  said  I  should  be 
delighted,  so  we  looked  at  several.  Many  were  mere 
scraps,  others  very  rough,  and  done  on  any  odds  and 
ends  of  paper.  I  asked  her  if  she  would  give  me 
one  of  these.  '  I  cannot,'  she  replied  ;  '  I  never  give 
one  away,  or  let  him.  If  anything  happens  that  he 
can't  draw,  or  if  he  were  to  die,  I  shall  sell  them  '  ; 
and  she  added  as  she  shut  and  locked  the  drawer, 
taking  out  the  key,  '■this  \s property,  you  know.'  " 

No  doubt  this  very  business-like  lady  would  have 
felt  offended  if  my  father  had  refused  her  an  autograph. 


90  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

or  a  verse  for  her  album,  for  it  is  a  peculiarity  of 
"  business-like  people  "  that  they  resent  that  quality 
in  others.  But  my  father,  as  I  have  said,  was  very 
good-natured  over  such  requests,  and  would  write 
something  in  a  few  moments,  and  without  that  air  of 
doing-an-inferior-being-an-overwhelming-favour  that  so 
many  literary  people  affect. 

Many  years  after  I  went  to  call  on  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Du  Maurier  at  their  house  in  Hampstead.  As  I  went 
into  the  drawing-room  I  was  in  fear  and  trepidation — 
would  Mr.  Du  Maurier  recall  that  ignorant  mistake 
of  mine  ?  would  he  remember  *'  Petrarch's  Laura  "  ? 
My  Petrarch  was  dead  ;  he  never  lived  to  grow  old, 
but  died,  like  my  own  father,  "  before  the  dreary 
age  comes,"  which  is  perhaps  best  and  happiest  for 
those  gentle  and  exuberant  people  whom  one  cannot 
imagine  living  to  grow  old  and  sad. 

I  was  sitting  thinking  rather  sadly  of  those  past 
days,  when  the  servant  came  back,  and  then  told 
me  Mrs.  Du  Maurier  was  out,  but  would  I  come 
into  Mr.  Du  Maurier's  room,  as  he  would  be  very 
glad  to  see  me.  I  went,  and  found  the  artist  sitting 
alone  and  seemingly  rather  dull.  He  told  me  he 
was  almost  blind  ;  and  he  spoke  of  my  father's 
early  death,  of  his  hard  work,  his  philanthropy  and 
his  Christianity.  He  talked  of  his  own  work,  and 
seemed  afraid  he  should  not  be  able  to  keep  on 
drawing  much  longer  for  Punch. 

"  You  think  I  can  see  you,"  he  said  ;  "  but  though 


Mr.  Du   Maurier  9^ 

I  know  you  are  quite  near  me,  you  are  in  a  grey 
mist,  and  I  cannot  distinguish  your  features." 

I  was  very  much  shocked  to  hear  this,  as  his  eyes 
looked  fairly  well  ;  I  had  seen  them  often  looking 
worse,  and  I  said  so,  for  he  was  evidently  much 
depressed  about  them.  He  talked  of  the  old  days  in 
Great  Russell  Street,  and  said  "  that  then  was  his 
happiest  time,  and  those  were  the  palmy  days  of 
Punchy 

I  sat  and  listened,  and  did  all  I  could  to  cheer 
him,  but  I  did  not  remind  him  of  "  my  Patriarch." 
I  doubt  if  it  would  have  made  him  laugh  so  heartily 
as  it  did  in  the  days  when  he  was  young  ;  not  that 
he  was  old  in  years,  it  was  his  affliction  that  made 
him  feel  so^  He  had  not  at  this  time  written 
Trilby.     I   never  saw  him  after  that  book  came  out. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

A  .QUEEN    ANNE   HOUSE— AN    INDIAN    PRINCE — A   VISION  OF  THE  PAST — 
A   LARGE     "AT   HOME." 

THERE  still  stands  in  Dean  Street,  Soho,  an  old 
house  of  the  time  of  Queen  Anne.  It  is 
sandwiched  between  the  Royalty  Theatre  and  a  club, 
and  in  the  sixties  and  seventies  was  tenanted  by  a 
diamond  merchant.  It  was  a  house  of  questionable 
fame,  for  early  in  the  last  century  it  was  inhabited  by 
a  celebrated  doctor,  to  whom  body-snatchers  brought 
their  booty.  The  body  of  the  Italian  boy.  Carlo 
Ferrari,  was  brought  to  that  house,  and  it  was  the 
discovery  by  the  doctor  that  this  boy  had  been  burked 
— i.e.  done  to  death  by  suffocation,  or  by  having  a 
pitch  plaster  pressed  over  his  mouth — that  led  to  the 
conviction  of  Bishop  and  Williams,  his  murderers. 

The  house  was  very  large,  with  panelled  rooms, 
ornamental  ceilings,  oak  floors,  and  high  carved 
mantelpieces.  It  had  a  well  staircase,  so  wide  and 
with  such  shallow  oak  steps  that  it  was  said  a  coach 
and  horses  could  be  driven  up  it.  The  balusters 
and  rails  were  mahogany,  and  so  were  the  doors  of 
the  rooms,  but  the  latter  had  been  painted.  It  had 
vast  stone  passages  and  kitchens,  and  some  old  rooms 

99 


An  Old  House  93 

across  a  yard  at  the  back,  which  the  jeweller  used 
for  workshops,  but  which  the  doctor  had  used  as 
dissecting  rooms.  Halfway  down  the  lower  stairs 
was  a  deep  hole  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall,  where 
it  was  said  the  doctor  had  kept  many  a  body.  The 
hole  was  concealed  by  a  sliding  panel  at  that  time, 
now  it  is  bricked  up,  but  there  is  still  a  door  in  the 
panelling  where  it  was. 

Mr.    W ,   the   jeweller,  was  a    great    friend  of 

my  father  ;  he  had  a  charming  wife  and  two  children, 
a  boy  and  a  girl.  The  boy  was  about  the  age  of  my 
elder  brother  (the  Philosopher)  and  in  my  very 
youthful  days  he  charmed  me  by  always  looking  so 
neat  and  clean,  which  the  Philosopher  did  not.  One 
boy  was  strong  and  healthy,  the  other  very  delicate ; 

but  this  I  did  not  realise.     Little  Miss  W was 

some  years  younger  than  myself,  and  had  been  to 
Watford  to  school  with  me,  and  was  my  devoted 
friend. 

The  W s  entertained  frequently,  and  gave  large 

children's  parties,  the  chief  feature  of  which  was  a 
gigantic  Christmas  tree.  They  also  gave  grown-up 
parties,  and  I  well  remember  my  first  grown-up  dance 
took  place  in  that  old  house.  My  mother  would 
never  let  me  be  dressed  in  white,  nor  in  muslin,  like 
other  girls;  I  was  too  pale,  she  said,  for  white,  and 
she  was  too  much  afraid  of  fire  to  let  me  wear  muslin. 
So  for  this  dance  behold  me  in  a  dress  of  pearl-grey 
satin,   not   quite   down    to   my  ankles,   for   I   was   not 


94  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

sixteen  ;  the  skirt  trimmed  with  three  rows  of  royal 
blue  velvet,  and  a  broad  band  of  the  same  finishing 
the  square-necked  bodice.  I  wore  black  silk  open- 
work stockings,  high-heeled  shoes  with  buckles,  and 
long  black  lace  mittens.  My  quaint  dress  caused 
quite  a  number  of  remarks,  for  I  heard  people  ask, 
"  Who  is  that  girl  who  looks  as  if  she  had  stepped 
out  of  an  old  picture  .''  "  "  She  ? — oh  !  she's  the 
daughter  of  the  author  of  The  Gentle  Life  " — the  old 
answer  that  I   knew  so  well. 

We  had  all  been  invited  to  this  dance,  but  my 
father  was  ill,  and  my  mother  at  home  with  him ; 
my  grandmother  was  with  us,  but  was  playing  cards 
in  another  room,  and  I  spent  most  of  my  time,  when 
not  dancing,  in  the  conservatory  listening  to  the 
songs  and  the  applause  which  could  be  distinctly  heard 
from  the  theatre  next  door.  I  fancy  they  were  playing 
one  of  Burnand's  burlesques.  The  conservatory  was 
a  favourite  place  for  us  girls  and  boys,  for  we  could 
hear  most  of  the  songs  very  distinctly,  and  even  the 
dancing  of  some  of  the  performers.  It  was  a  most 
curious  and  weird  sensation,  something  like  a  phono- 
graph, only  without  the  head-in-a-jug-like  sound.  At 
the  further  end  of  the  conservatory  nothing  was  heard 
of  the  music  and  dancing  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
I  delighted  to  sit  there  and  to  pretend  I  was  at  the 
play. 

At  this  party  there  were  two  Indians,  one  in  the 
most  gorgeous  of  dresses,  literally  covered  with  gold 


An   Indian   Prince  95 

embroidery  and  jewels.  The  centre  jewel  in  his  turban 
was  a  very  large  diamond,  which  sparkled  like  a 
miniature  sun.  The  Indians  seemed  rather  out  of 
their  element.  They  wandered  about,  and  I  often 
caught  the  smartly  dressed  one,   whom  the  Philosopher 

and  Nash  W called  "  Old  Koh-i-noor,"  looking 

at  me.  He  stood  in  a  recess  and  looked  very  orna- 
mental and  imposing,  and  I  thought  added  to  the 
decorations  of  the  room  ;  but  I  did  not  like  it  when 
he  followed  me  into  the  conservatory  and  rolled  his 
eyes  and  showed  his  white  teeth  in  a  smile  that  was 
intended  to  be  charming,  but  which  I  thought  alarming. 
I  escaped  into  the  dancing-room  and  sat  down  upon 
a  rout  seat  against  the  wall.  There  the  hostess  came 
up  to  me  and  said  : 

"  Prince  wants  to  be  introduced  to  you." 

"  I  can't  dance  with  a  black  man,"  I  replied,  with 
decision. 

"  Black ! — he  is  not  black,  only  a  beautiful  brown. 
Now  don't  be  silly,  Laura  ;  I  don't  think  he  wants 
to  dance — I   don't  think  he  can." 

"  I  don't  see  how  any  one  can  dance  with  him, 
he'd  be  too  scratchy,"  I  said ;  "  besides,  'an  old  picture' 
and  an   Indian  idol  can't  dance." 

Several  people,  hearing  this,  tittered.      Mrs.  W^ 

looked  vexed  and  murmured  : 

"  Now  do  be  a  good  girl ;  some  people  would  be 
flattered  at  being  noticed  by  an  Indian  prince." 

"  He  is  like  an  Indian  god,"  said  I,  taking  a  peep 


96  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

at  him,  and  then  I  drew  back,  for  the  Prince,  who  had 
been  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  suddenly  stood  before 
me  and  bowed  profoundly,  while  his  attendant  and 
interpreter  looked  on — I  thought  there  was  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye. 

They  were  dancing  the  lancers,  and  I  believe  "  old 
Koh-i-noor "  would  have  liked   to  join,   but  I    shook 
my    head  vigorously  when  he  put    out  his  hand    and 
said   "  dance "  ;    he    waved    his    attendant    imperiously 
away.     We  sat  side  by  side,  and  I  at  least  felt  very 
uncomfortable  ;    for     though    his     attendant     had     re- 
tired   to   some   distance,    he  seemed   to    me  to  regard 
us  both  with  a   satirical  smile,    as   though   there  were 
some  joke,  though  I   could  see  none.     All  the  Prince 
said  was  an  indescribable  word,  which  some  one  told 
me  afterwards  meant  "  very  fair,"  and  alluded  to  my 
complexion   and   hair,    but   it  was  quite   lost  on   me  ; 
yet  I  felt  his  attentions  decidedly  embarrassing.     But, 
though  I  did  not  realise  it  at  the  time,  I  have  no  doubt 
now  that  I  brought  them  upon  myself.     When   I  first 
saw  him  standing  in  a  recess  watching  the  dancers,  he 
had  looked  so  still  and  wooden  that  I  thought  of  the 
Indian    figures    I    had    seen    on    little    round    wooden 
stands,  and  I  called  him  "  an   Indian  ido   "  ;  then  my 
fondness    for    fairy    tales    and    my    vivid    imagination 
carried  me  on.      I  looked  at  him  again  and  again — for 
was  he   not  the  Sultan   to  whom  Sheherazade  related 
the   stories  in   The  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments  ?  or 
he  might  be   '*  The  King  of  the  Black  Isles,"  or  the 


Old  Koh-i-Noor  97 

caliph  Haroun  Alraschid,  and  in  that  case  he  must  have 
been  personally  acquainted  with  Sinbad  the  Sailor.  It 
was  no  uncommon  thing  for  my  partners  to  find  me 
rather  preoccupied,  and  to  ask  me  what  I  was  thinking 
of,  and  sometimes  my  replies  created  considerable 
astonishment  and  amusement.  I  remember  in  this 
instance  a  Mr.  Jellicoe,  whom  I  knew  very  well,  was 
my  partner,  and  he  was  highly  amused  and  suggested 
other  characters,  and  each  time  I  have  no  doubt  I 
looked  critically  at  the  two  Indians.  But  I  shall  never 
forget  my  dismay,  not  to  say  horror,  at  finding  "  old 
Koh-i-Noor  "  at  my  side.  If  he  had  been  any  one  of 
the  characters  I  had  imagined  him,  I  could  not  have 
been  more  alarmed. 

It  was  not  his  title,  for  very  young  people  are  not 
abashed  at  titled  people — besides,  I  was  accustomed  to 
see  Prince  Ghica  (Prince  of  Samos)  at  our  house 
frequently,  as  his  son  was  a  ward  of  my  father's,  and 
was  at  that  party  with  us  ;  nor  was  it  the  Indian's 
dark  colour,  for  he  was  not  so  dark-skinned  as  Prince 
Ghica  ;  it  was,  I  think,  his  gorgeous  dress  and  my  own 
imagination  in  thinking  he  had  stepped  out  of  The 
Arabian  Nights.  I  could  not  answer  the  few  words 
of  broken  English  he  managed  to  utter,  and  it  was  not 
till,  the  dance  being  over,  two  persons  passed  us  and 
the  gentleman  said  to  his  partner,  "  Oh,  look  at 
those  two — there's  a  picture  of  Beauty  and  the  Beast  !  " 
that  I  looked  up  startled  and  horrified  into  the 
Prince's  face.     He  did  not  understand  what  was  said, 

7 


98  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

he  only  smiled  seraphically  upon  me,  and  clasping  my 
hand,  pressed  it  to  his  golden  and  bejewelled  breast  ; 
and  I,  like  the  heroine  of  a  novel,  tore  it  out  of  his 
clasp,  and  jumping  out  of  my  seat,  the  door  being 
close  by,   slipped  out  of  the  room. 

Once  outside,  I  quickly  threaded  my  way  through 
the  flirting  groups  and  sped  up  the  shallow  stairs 
as  though  I  were  pursued  ;  halfway  I  stopped  and 
thumped  upon  a  door,  calling  "  Dick  !  Dick  !  "  but 
as  there  was  no  answer  I  flew  on,  to  the  top  of  the 

house  and  into  Miss  W s  bedroom,  and  crept  up 

to  the  bed.  The  blinds  were  up  and  the  moonlight 
streamed  into  the  room,  and  there  lay  my  little  friend, 
fast  asleep,  all  her  thick,  fair  hair  covering  the  pillow, 
as  I  had  so  often  seen  it  when  I  had  awakened  in  the 
night  at  school.  I  sat  down  by  the  bed  and  lay  my 
head  on  the  pillow,  and  almost  wished  we  were  both 
back  at  Watford,  far  away  from  Indian  princes  and 
all  such  gorgeous  personages. 

I  suppose  I  fell  asleep,  but  not  for  long.  A  chiming 
clock  startled  me  ;  I  sat  up  ;  I  could  hear  the  faint 
strains  of  the  Blue  Danube  Waltz  floating  up  to  me, 
and  I  was  conscious  of  being  very  hungry.  I  rose, 
and,  passing  the  dressing-table,  caught  sight  of  myself 
in  the  glass,  and  was  quite  afraid  of  my  own  reflection. 
I  did  look  like  an  old  picture,  like  one  of  the  women 
of  Queen  Anne's  day.  My  hair,  done  high  over  a 
cushion,  fell  in  curls  over  my  shoulders,  and  the 
moonlight  catching  it  had  almost  the  efi^ect  of  powder. 


A  Vision  of  the  Past  99 

I  looked  round  the  panelled  room,  and  again  at  the 
old-fashioned  girl  ;  then  I  turned  my  back  abruptly 
on  her,  for  I  had  a  curious  feeling  that  I  had 
stood  there  before  and  had  seen  that  girl  before, 
that  the  years  had  slipped  back,  and  it  was  the  days 
of  Queen  Anne  I  was  living  in,  that  on  joining 
the  dancers  I  should  find  them  all  in  powder  and 
patches,  dancing  a  minuet.  So  strong  was  the 
feeling  that  as  I  went  downstairs  I  was  still  under 
the  impression  that  I  was  some  one  who  had  lived 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  should  not  have  been 
surprised  to  find  my  partner  waiting  for  me  in  silk 
stockings,   satin  clothes,  and  a  wig. 

To  bring  myself  back  to  the  present  I  stopped 
on  the  landing,  and,  leaning  my  arms  on  the  hand-rail, 
looked  over  into  the  hall  ;  the  first  glance  of  the 
dancers  in  their  modern  dress  would  recall  me,  I 
thought.  But  instead  of  seeing  the  dancers  of  Queen 
Anne's  time,  or  the  present,  I  fancied  I  saw  two  men 
carrying  a  body  in  its  grave-clothes,  while  a  tall  old 
man  in  a  dressing-gown  stood  holding  a  flaring  tallow 
candle,  which  guttered  in  the  draught.  I  felt  the 
cold  air  and  shivered.  I  also  fancied  I  heard  the  panel 
slide  back,  but  I  could  not  see  the  hole  in  the  wall 
from  where  I  stood  ;  but  I  saw  the  rough  men  return 
up  the  stone  steps,  wiping  their  faces,  and  the  doctor 
move  to  show  them  out,  his  slippers  flapping  on 
the  stone  pavement  of  the  hall,  as  he  held  the  light 
high  above  his  head. 


loo  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

This  vision  was  so  vivid  I  could  have  declared  it 
was  real,  but  some  such  scene  had  been  no  doubt 
described  to  me  by  the  Philosopher,  who  was  nothing 
if  not  realistic.  A  chiming  clock  which  played  a  tune 
began  to  perform  ;  it  stood  on  a  bracket  behind  me. 
I  could  not  endure  it.  I  recovered  myself  with  a 
shake  and  fled  downstairs  to  the  basement,  where  I  ran 

against  Mr.  W ,  who  caught  hold  of  me  and  said  : 

"  Hullo  !  what's  the  matter  ^ — what  mischief  have 
you  been  up  to  .'* " 

"  Only  sitting  by  an   Indian  idol,"  1   said. 
"  Did  he  want  to  eat  her,   then  .'' "   he  laughed. 
*'  Where   are   Dick  and    Dimitry  .?  "    I   asked,   with 
dignity. 

"  Oh,  those  boys  !   they'll  catch  it — they  are  all  out 
there,  making  themselves  like  sweeps,  I'll  be  bound." 
I   of  course  wished  to  go  into  the  workshops  too, 

but  Mr.  W would  not  hear  of  it,  and  took  me  into 

the  supper-room,  where  he  left  me  in  charge  of  three 
waiters,  whom  I  very  much  amused  by  declining  raised 
pie  and   fowls,    and  ordering   "  cold  beef  and  a  glass 

of  port."      Mr.   W had  whispered  before  he  left 

me,  "  Now,  have  a  good  supper,  and  don't  be 
alarmed  ;  the  Indian  idol  won't  come  down  here,  he 
won't  eat  anything — idols  never  do,  you  know — and 
I  shall  be  back  in  a  minute  when  I've  sent  him  home 
to  bed." 

The  next  time   I  saw  an  Indian   Grandee  was  some 
years   afterwards  at   Miss   Kortright's,   in   Kensington 


A  Great  Crush  loi 

Palace  Gardens.  I  went  with  my  father  and  mother 
to  a  large  At  Home,  and  met,  amongst  other  celebrities, 
Robert  Browning  and  his  son,  Robert  Barrett  Browning. 
I  thought  Browning  so  very  like  the  photographs  of 
Longfellow  that  the  portrait  of  one  man  would  have 
done  for  the  other  ;  I  should  have  been  in  doubt 
as  to  whether  it  was  not  Longfellow  I  had  seen, 
but  that  I  do  not  think  Longfellow  was  in  London, 
and,  moreover,  my  mother  tells  me  it  was  Browning. 

There  was  a  very  great  crush  ;  we  were  a  long 
time  getting  upstairs,  and  could  scarcely  move  in 
the  rooms,  Mr,  Wills,  the  author  of  the  play 
Charles  /.,  which  Irving  made  so  popular,  was 
kind  enough  to  look  after  me  and  find  me  a  seat  ; 
he  had  procured  a  chair  from  somewhere,  and  brought 
it  to  me  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  for  it  was 
impossible  to  struggle  out  of  the  crowd  ;  and  if  Mr. 
Wills  had  not  kindly  leant  on  the  back  of  the  chair, 
I  think  I  should  have  been  pushed  over,  chair  and 
all,  and  trampled  upon.  We  were  surrounded  by 
celebrities  of  all  kinds  ;  Mathilde  Blind  was  there 
and  spoke  to  us,  but  there  was  little  opportunity 
to  exchange  more  than  a  word — it  was  a  case  of 
"  Move  on,  move  on." 

The  Indian  was  not  so  gorgeously  dressed  as  my 
Indian  idol,  but  he  could  speak  English  ;  and  as  he 
stood  on  the  hearthrug  in  one  of  the  drawing-rooms, 
everybody  very  kindly  crowding  round  and  staring 
at  him,  he  said  in  very  fair  English  : 


I02  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  Mees  Kortright  ought  to  sharge  seexpence — 
seexpence  a — what  you  call  it  ? — a — a  head,"  and  he 
tapped  his  turban  (which  was  jewelled,  but  nothing 
like  that  of  "old  Koh-i-Noor's "),  "and  she  would 
make  a  lot  of  vot  you   call   monies." 

I  did  not  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  this 
gentleman  ;  I  doubt  if  he  saw  me  then  ;  he  did  after- 
wards, but  it  was  only  to  scowl  at  me  for  watching 
him,  for  I  was  highly  amused  at  his  greediness, 

I  really  do  not  remember  now  who  he  was,  though 
I  no  doubt  heard  at  the  time.  I  know  there  was  an 
Italian  Countess  there,  whose  dress  was  very  decollete^ 
and  whose  voice,  when  she  sang,  was  very  screechy,  but 
the  Grandee  admired  her,  and  took  her  down  to  the 
refreshment-room.  The  refreshments  were  in  the 
dining-room,  which  had  originally  had  folding  doors  ; 
the  tables  were  in  the  back  room,  except  a  small 
round  one  in  a  window  in  the  front  room.  My 
mother  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  the  front 
room,  and  my  father  and  Mr.  Wills  were  foraging  for 
us,  when  down  came  the  Indian  Grandee  and  the  Italian 
Countess  ;  he  settled  her  at  the  table,  and  he  must 
have  bribed  a  waiter  heavily,  for  there  soon  appeared 
mayonnaise  of  salmon,  raised  pie,  truffles,  trifle,  fruit, 
cakes,  tarts — everything  there  was,  in  fact,  and  at 
least  four  bottles  of  champagne,  besides  other  wine. 
I  never  saw  two  people  eat,  drink,  and  talk  so  much 
or  so  fast  in  all  my  life.  I  watched  with  "  all  my 
eyes,"  as  the  saying  is,  and  in  spite  of  the  Grandee's 


The  Grandee  and  the  Countess  103 

scowls.  It  was  an  edifying  spectacle,  and  so  several 
people  besides  myself  seemed  to  think.  My  father, 
who  always  looked  after  us — that  is,  however  much 
attention  he  paid  to  other  ladies,  he  always  saw  that 
my  mother  and  I  were  being  attended  to — could  only 
get  us  very  little  to  eat,  and  that  with  great  difficulty. 
I  do  not  think  he  and  Mr.  Wills  had  anything, 
and  I  am  sure  there  were  many  who  had  no  supper  ; 
but  the  Grandee  and  the  Countess  went  calmly  on, 
and  we  left  them  calling  for  more.  The  sly  way  the 
Indian  hid  the  champagne  under  the  Countess's  dress 
and  the  manner  in  which  she  aided  and  abetted  him 
was  very  amusing.  Then  the  furtive  glance  he  would 
give  round  the  room,  and,  catching  my  eye,  scowl 
fiercely  and  yet  look  ashamed  and  uneasy,  delighted 
me  ;  but  the  Countess  was  much  more  shameless — she 
did  not  care  at  all,  but  ate  and  jabbered,  and  evidently 
enjoyed  herself.  I  tried  to  entice  Mr.  Wills  and  my 
father  to  face  them  boldly  and  make  them  share  their 
spoils,  but  they  would  not  ;  and  the  Indian  certainly 
had  a  temper,  for  when  the  waiter  struck  he  commenced 
to  abuse  him  roundly,  and  then  it  was  we  went  and 
left  them  still  asking  for  more. 


CHAPTER    IX 

"  THE  DUCHESS  " — A  SERIOUS  ACCIDENT — PROFESSOR  MORLEY — 
"A  STORY  FROM  BOCCACCIO  " — PRINCE  JON  GHICA — A  LETTER  FROM 
KINGSLEY — "ALTON  LOCKE '' AND  THOMAS  COOPER — I  MEET  CHARLES 
KINGSLEY. 

MY  father  was  fond  of  driving  in  the  Park,  or 
out  into  the  country,  so  we  kept  a  park 
phaeton  and  a  mare  called  "  the  Duchess."  The 
mare  was  one  of  a  pair  of  ponies  that  had  belonged 
to  the  Duchess  of  Wellington  (daughter-in-law  of 
the  Great  Duke)  ;  she  was  tall  for  a  pony,  but  of  a 
very  pretty  bright  chestnut  colour  ;  her  companion 
had  died,  which  was  the  reason  the  Duchess  sold 
her.  The  mare  was  used  to  going  the  usual  tread- 
mill round  in  the  Park  ;  she  did  not  care  to  be 
driven  through  the  streets,  especially  if  they  were 
"mean  streets";  she  was  not  alarmed  at  bands  or 
crowds,  but  they  must  be  well-dressed  crowds  ;  alto- 
gether she  was  a  pony  of  aristocratic  proclivities. 
As  she  had  not  enough  exercise  she  became  very 
skittish,  and  driving  her  was  decidedly  exciting,  so 
much  so  that  my  mother  seldom  ventured,  and  I 
therefore  became  my  father's  companion.  In  the 
streets     "  the     Duchess "     rushed     or    pranced    along, 

104 


''That  Dreadful  Duchess''  105 

seemingly  anxious  to  run  over  all  and  sundry  who 
came  in  her  way;  in  the  Park  she  evinced  a  strong 
desire  to  lead  the  way,  and  it  took  all  my  father's 
time  to  hold  her  in  and  keep  her  in  line.  She 
occasionally  stood  on  her  hind  legs  if  there  was  a 
block  in  the  street  and  she  was  kept  waiting  long  ; 
she  obstinately  refused  to  stand  at  anybody's  door, 
but  especially  at  a  publisher's. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  heartsick  terror  as  she 
began  to  trot  away  from  Chapman  &  Hall's  door, 
my  father  being  inside  the  shop.  Had  not  some  one 
come  to  the  rescue  I  am  sure  there  would  have 
been  a  fearful  accident  ;  for  though,  even  in  those 
early  days,  I  knew  how  to  drive,  I  had  neither  the 
strength  to  hold  "  the  Duchess,"  nor  the  skill  to 
guide  her  through  the  London  traffic.  That  my 
father  would  some  day  be  killed,  or  at  any  rate 
injured,  I  felt  as  certain  as  my  mother  did  ;  but 
I  could  not,  like  her,  stay  at  home  ;  I  must  be  on 
the  spot — my  anxiety  was  too  great  when  1  knew 
he  was  out  with  "  that  dreadful  Duchess,"  as  I 
called  the  mare  in  my  own  mind,  for  one  dared 
not  say  anything  against  her  aloud.  There  was 
nothing  the  matter  with  the  pony  except  want  of 
exercise  ;  when  we  were  in  the  country  and  she 
was  driven  out  daily  she  was  quiet  enough,  but 
in  London  it  was  very  different,  for  my  father 
was  too  busy  to  go  out  every  day,  or,  when  he 
did,    to    drive    far  ;     and    though     the     livery    stable 


io6  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

keeper  was   paid  to   exercise   her,   1   do    not  think  he 
did  so. 

My  mother  was  so  nervous  that  she  continually 
tried  to  induce  my  father  to  sell  "  the  Duchess,"  and 
she  often  sent  me  to  spend  the  day  with  my  aunt 
to  prevent  my  father  taking  me  out  with  him.  One 
day  when  I  was  at  my  aunt's,  my  father  called  for  me  ; 
he  was  going  to  drive  to  Edmonton,  "  and  would  like 
to  take  me  with  him."  As  we  were  going  over  a 
railway  bridge  near  King's  Cross  a  puff  of  steam  and 
a  whistle  from  a  train  startled  the  mare  and  she  ran 
away.  I  shall  never  forget  the  people's  shrieks  as  we 
tore  over  the  bridge.  My  hat  and  muff  lay  in  the 
mud  in  the  road,  and  I  felt  very  much  concerned 
about  them.  Fortunately  for  us,  "  the  Duchess's  "  mad 
career  was  checked  by  a  cart  which,  full  of  sacks 
of  potatoes,  was  standing  at  the  door  of  a  ware- 
house. The  mare  swerved  aside  to  avoid  the  cart, 
and  the  tailboard  came  in  front  of  me  like  a  table, 
but  it  did  not  strike  my  father  ;  I  fell  forward, 
hitting  my  face  on  the  knobbly  sacks.  As  the 
phaeton  struck  the  cart  there  was  a  sound  of  shivering 
glass,  as  one  of  the  lamps  was  smashed.  That,  and 
the  cries  of  the  people  :  "  Oh,  the  young  lady '11  be 
killed  !  The  young  lady'll  be  killed  ! "  and  the 
thud!  thud!  of  "the  Duchess's"  hoofs  as  she  stood 
and  kicked,  while  my  father  thrashed  her,  made  a 
sufficiently  exciting  scene.  After  the  first  few  moments 
of  horror  and  indecision,  two  men   rushed  and   tried 


A  Serious  Accident  107 

to  drag   me  out — they  succeeded,   but  it  felt  as  if  I 
were  being  torn  asunder. 

They  carried  me  into  a  shed  belonging  to  the 
railway,  where  I  sat  for  some  time  in  a  semi-conscious 
state,  watching  a  man  sort  tickets.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  1  had  been  there  hours,  for  at  times  I  closed 
my  eyes,  and  every  time  I  opened  them  there  was 
the  man  still  sorting  tickets.  At  last  I  startled  him 
by  asking  : 

"  Is  my  father  dead  yet  ^  " 

"  Lord,  no  !  as  lively  as  possible,"  he  replied  ;  "  and 
you'll  be  all  right  soon — you  ain't  'urt." 

As  he  spoke  he  rose,  and  I  watched  him  with  great 
interest  open  a  locker  which  ran  along  one  side  of 
the  shed.  It  appeared  to  be  a  covering  for  gas-pipes, 
and  a  receptacle  for  all  manner  of  miscellaneous  things 
— tools,  rags,  cotton-waste,  a  coat  and  a  waistcoat  he 
turned  out.  What  was  he  searching  for  ?  I  wondered. 
I  knew  it  was  something  for  me — was  he  going  to 
give  me  some  medicine,  or  something  to  eat  ?  If  it 
was  the  latter,  I  hoped  it  would  be  something  very 
nice  ;  but  how  could  it  be  out  of  such  a  place  .''  Much 
to  my  disappointment  he  at  last  produced  a  small 
hand-glass,  which  he  handed  to  me.  I  took  it  and 
stared  in  his  face. 

"  Look  in  it,"  he  said.  "  See  there,  you  ain't  got 
a  mark  on  yer  face." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  my  face  !  "  I  replied  bitterly  and  scorn- 
fully.    "  It's  my  back  and  my  legs — I  can't  walk." 


io8  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  They  ain't  broke,"  he  said  ;  "  no,  they  can't  be." 

"  I  never  shall  be  able  to  walk  again,"  I  said,  with 
conviction. 

He  looked  scared,  as  if  he  thought  the  accident 
had  turned  my  brain  ;  but  before  he  could  answer  my 
father  came  to  the  door,  with  the  carriage  rug  over 
his  arm  and  the  whip  in  his  hand.  His  face  was 
very  white  and  he  looked  very  anxious,  but  he  smiled 
at  me,  and  1  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  him  ;  so  I 
rose  and  walked  towards  him,  but  I  felt  as  if  my  legs 
did  not  belong  to  me.  However,  I  assured  him  I  was 
not  much  hurt,  so  he  put  me  into  a  cab  with  the 
carriage  rug  and  sent  me  back  to  my  aunt's,  while 
he  drove  "  the  Duchess  "  down  to  Edmonton,  where 
he  left  her — and  we  never  saw  her  again,  as  my  father 
sold  her.  As  to  me,  I  was  laid  up  for  a  week  and 
had  to  have  the  doctor,  and  I  think  I  was  fortunate 
to  have  got  off  so  cheaply. 

During  the  time  my  father  drove  me  about  I 
frequently  went  to  see  Professor  Morley  and  his 
wife  and  children.  They  lived  in  Park  Hill  Road, 
Haverstock  Hill  ;  the  first  time  I  visited  them  was 
on  a  lovely  summer  afternoon  ;  we  stayed  to  tea, 
and  I  was  much  taken  with  the  Professor  and  Mrs. 
Morley  and  their  big  children.  It  was  very  warm, 
and  I  was  tired  ;  and  as  I  could  not  run  about  with 
his  boys  and  girls,  the  Professor  took  me  into  his 
study  and  gave  me  his  waste-paper  basket  to  look 
over,     "  to    find     crests   and    monograms,"    which    he 


Professor  Morley  109 

heard  I  was  collecting.  I  remember  so  well  sitting 
on  the  floor  near  the  Professor  and  rummaging 
through  all  the  contents  of  the  basket,  while  his  pen 
went  scratch-scratch-scratch,  at  a  great  rate.  My 
mother  and  Mrs.  Morley  were  walking  on  the  lawn 
in  the  garden  ;  their  voices,  and  the  occasional  laughter 
and  shouting  of  the  children  floated  into  the  room. 
My  father  had  gone  to  fetch  "  the  Duchess,"  whom 
he  had  put  up  on  Haverstock  Hill. 

Every  now  and  then  the  Professor  would  look 
at  me  with  a  smile,  and  say  :  "  Well,  little  girl,  have 
you  found  any  ^ "  Or,  '*  What  a  quiet  little  girl 
you  are  1  "  The  second  time  he  said  "  What  a  quiet 
little  girl  you  are,"  he  went  on  to  add,  "  I  wish 
my  girls  were  as  quiet." 

I  answered  :  "  Children  ought  to  make  a  noise  ; 
you  would  not  like  your  girls  to  be  like  a  person 
who  is  weak." 

"  No,"  said  the  Professor,  looking  grave  and  some- 
what astonished. 

"  I  can  make  a  noise  ;  I  have  good  lungs,  every 
one  says  so  ;  but  I  am  always  very  tired,"  I  explained. 

"  Poor  little  woman  !  "  said  the  Professor,  smiling. 

"  I  don't  hke  to  be  pitied,  and  I  mean  to  get 
well,"   said  I. 

"  That's  right — that's  what  I  call  pluck,"  returned 
Mr.  Morley,  with  a  laugh  and  an  encouraging  nod, 
and  then,  finding  I  wanted  to  get  up,  and  could 
not  without  assistance,  he  helped   me,  and  I  sat  down 


no  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

in  an  armchair  near  his  desk,  while  his  pen  went 
on  and  on,  and  all  kinds  of  pleasant  thoughts  and 
odd  verses  of  poetry  came  into  my  head,  as  they 
were  wont  to  do.  I  found  myself  repeating  a  verse 
of  a  poem  by  Robert  Brough  ;  it  was  called  "  A 
Story  from  Boccaccio"  ;  1  suppose  the  garden  and  the 
sunshine  put  it  into  my  head,  for  I  kept  saying  to 
myself : 

Were  I  to  try  the  beauties  of  the  sky,  and  trees,  and  ocean 
To  depict,  our  travelled  critics  would  be  quickly  down  on  me  ; 

All  I  want  is  to  convey  a  golden,  dreamy  kind  of  notion 
Of  a  garden,  in  the  sunset,  by  the  Adriatic  Sea. 

Professor  Morley's  garden  was  very  far  from  the 
Adriatic  Sea  ;  but  that  beautiful  summer  evening, 
and  the  "golden,  dreamy  kind  of  notion"  of  that 
garden  in  the  sunset,  has  ever  remained  with  me. 

My  first  visit  was  by  no  means  my  last.  The 
Professor  was  always  very  kind  to  me — he  never 
forgot  my  fondness  for  crests  and  monograms,  and 
took  to  saving  them  for  me,  and  sending  them  to  my 
father  to  send  to  me  at  school.  Thus  I  have  all  the 
arms  and  crests  of  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
besides  those  of  private  individuals,  sent  me  by 
Professor  Morley. 

I  have  spoken  of  Prince  Jon  Ghica,  who  was 
a  well-known  man  in  Diplomatic  circles,  and  occupied 
a  prominent .  position  in  Roumania.  He  was  educated 
in  Paris,  and  was  a  fellow  pupil  of  Alexander  Golesco 
at  the  College  of  St.  Sava.     In  Bucharest  he  figured 


Prince  Jon  Ghica  1 1 1 

in  the  front  ranks  of  the  National  Opposition,  and 
took  part  in  the  conspiracy  of  Ilbralia.  He  was  at 
Jassy  for  two  years,  and  held  the  Chairs  of  Mathe- 
matics and  Political  Economy  at  the  University.  He 
founded  Le  Progres,  a  scientific  review,  and  was  author 
of  several  pamphlets  published  in  Paris.  On  his  return 
to  Bucharest  he  became  one  of  the  most  influential 
leaders  of  the  National  Party.  After  the  abdication 
of  Prince  Bibesco,  Prince  Ghica  was  sent  to  Con- 
stantinople as  Charge  d' Affaires  ;  and  through  the 
instrumentality  of  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe,  the 
British  Ambassador  at  Constantinople,  he  was  made 
Governor  of  the  Principality  of  Samos.  He  was 
several  times  a  Minister,  and  in  1866  was  Minister 
of  War  in  the  Cartargi  Cabinet.  He  was  a  deter- 
mined opponent  of  Russia,  a  great  admirer  of  all 
things  English,  a  constant  reader  of  my  father's 
books  and  articles,  and  came  over  to  England  to 
see  my  father,  and  to  ask  him  if  he  might  place  his 
son,  Demetrius,   in  his  care. 

I  can  well  remember  the  little,  dark-haired,  dark- 
skinned  man  ;  I  could  not  speak  French,  nor  he 
much  English,  so  I  was  reduced  to  looking  on  when 
he  came  and  talked  so  animatedly,  and  with  so  much 
gesture,  to  my  father.  "  Dimitry,"  as  we  called 
his  son,  became  like  a  third  brother — or  perhaps  I 
should  say  like  a  first,  as  he  was  older  than  the 
Philosopher.  He  was  a  very  pleasant,  boyish  boy, 
of  the  clumsy,  untidy  sort  ;  he  pulled    my  hair,  and 


112  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

tore  my  skirts  by  catching  at  them,  and  abused  me 
roundly  for  playing  the  piano  "  so  beastly  badly," 
as  he  expressed  it.  He  played  very  well  himself, 
and  when  1  became  more  proficient  he  was  the  first 
to  praise  me.  Dimitry  went  to  Wellington  College, 
and  my  father  and  mother,  treating  him  like  a  son, 
felt  it  their  bounden  duty  to  attend  concerts  and 
other  entertainments  there.  It  was  at  Wellington 
College  that  my  father  was  presented  to  the  King 
and  Queen,  then  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  ;  and 
it  was  there  my  father  first  met  Canon  Kingsley,  who 
asked  him  to  come  and  see  him. 

My  father  was  at  that  time  intending  to  add 
EuphueSy  one  of  the  works  of  John  Lilly  to  "  The 
Bayard  Series,"  and  asked  Kingsley  to  write  a 
preface.  The  Canon  replied  in  the  following  character- 
istic letter  : 

Lynn,   Tuesday. 
"  Your  letter    followed   me    to   Sandringham,    or    I 
should  have  answered  at    once.     I  am  delighted,  but 
not    surprised,    to    find    you    and    Professor     Morley 
appreciate  Euphues. 

"  I  preached  a  bit  of  him  at  Sandringham  on  Sunday 
— a  good  doctrine  for  Royalty — '  'Tis  virtue,  gentle- 
men, that  maketh  the  poor  rich,  the  base-born  noble, 
the  deformed  beautiful,  the  subject  a  sovereign  !  ' — 
one  of  the  finest  things  in  the  English  language. 
I  fear  Scott  has  done  the  book  lasting  harm  ;  probably 
he    never    read    it    right.     I    do    not    feel    inclined  to 


Kingsley^s  Letter  113 

write  a  preface  to  it,  however  kind  and  flattering 
your  advice  that  I  should  do  so.  I  do  not  think 
my  name  would  help  the  book ;  I  am  sure  yours 
would.  What  I  should  do  would  be  to  recommend 
and  to  review  it,  and  to  spread  it  in  all  ways  among 
young  men  and  young  women  over  whom  I  have 
influence. 

"  Meanwhile,  I  am  glad  to  find  you  are  a  man  ; 
men  who  care  for  '  the  gentle  life,'  without  being 
superstitious  or  hysterical,  are  growing  more  and 
more  rare.  If  you  are  again  at  Wellington  College, 
and  would  accept  hospitality  at  a  quiet  parsonage, 
where  no  footmen  are  kept,  nor  good  dinners  given, 
but  people  eat  plain  mutton  and  enjoy  music  and 
good  talk,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you.  Your 
photograph  has  not  reached  me,  having  been  kept 
by  Mrs.  Kingsley,  who,  admiring  The  Gentle  Life 
as  much  as  I,  longs  to  meet  and  know  you. 

"  Thank  you  sincerely  for  the  kind  words  in  your 
letter.  Kind  words  are  like  good  wine,  to  a  hard- 
worked  brain  and  somewhat  sad  heart. 

"  Yours  ever  most  sincerely, 

"Charles  Kingsley." 

My  father  went  to  Eversley  and  stayed  a  ^qw  days  ; 
he  was  charmed  with  the  people  and  the  place.  He 
had  always  had  an  intense  admiration  for  Kingsley, 
from  those  early  days  when  he  used  to  look  up  to 
Charles    Kingsley 's    portrait    hanging    on  the  walls  of 


114  In   the  Sixties   and   Seventies 

Mr.  Passmore  Edwards's  Institution  for  Working-men. 
Kingsley  was  a  man  after  my  father's  own  heart  ;  one 
who  always  had  the  welfare  of  the  poor  at  heart,  and 
who  had  said,  "  I  assert  that  the  business  for  which  God 
sends  a  Christian  priest  into  a  Christian  nation,  is  to 
preach  and  practise  liberty,  equality,  and  brotherhood, 
in  the  fullest,  deepest,  widest,  simplest  meaning  of 
those  three  great  words."  Kingsley  had  also  declared 
that  the  accumulation  of  wealth  out  of  the  needs  of 
the  poor  was  contrary  to  God's  wish  ;  that  He  would 
cry  out  "  Woe  unto  you  who,  to  make  few  rich, 
make  many  poor  !  Woe  unto  you  that  oust  the  masses 
from  the  soil  their  fathers  possessed  of  old  I  " 

With  these  sentiments  my  father  would  exactly 
agree,  for,  like  Kingsley,  he  had  imbibed  the  opinions 
of  that  remarkable  man  Henry  Mayhew,  author  of 
London  Labour  and  the  London  Poor.  Mayhew  was 
a  Bohemian  pur  sang^  a  litterateur^  a  newspaper  writer, 
one  of  the  originators  of  Punchy  a  chemist,  a  discoverer 
of  the  way  of  calcining  carbon  till  it  became  pure 
diamond — only  without  the  lustre  which  gives  the 
diamond  value — an  inventor  even  of  patent  buttons, 
a  dreamer,  and  a  reformer.  His  articles,  London  Labour 
and  the  London  Poor^  came  out  in  The  Morning 
Chronicle  ;  they  were  a  series  of  papers  gathered  from 
working-men  themselves.  The  subject  was  of  immense 
interest,  and  awakened  many,  besides  Charles  Kingsley 
and  my  father,  who  both  started  upon  the  business 
of  reclaiming  the  poor.     There  were  those  who  would 


Alton  Locke   and  Thomas  Cooper       115 

work,  those  who  would  not  work,  and  those  who 
could  not  work  ;  and  heart  and  soul  Kingsley  and 
my  father  plunged  into  the  matter.  Kingsley  had 
mixed  much  with  the  workers,  and  the  result  was 
one  of  the  most  powerful  novels  ever  written  :  Alton 
Locke^   Tailor   and  Poet. 

This  story,  which  I  read  when  I  was  almost  a  child, 
is  full  of  Christian  sympathy  with,  and  love  for,  the 
strugglers  and  toilers.  It  had  a  great  effect  upon  me, 
and  I  thought  myself  especially  fortunate  in  having 
seen  and  heard  Thomas  Cooper,  the  author  of  The 
Purgatory  of  Suicides^  a  most  remarkable  poem,  the 
product  of  two  years'  imprisonment  for  defending  the 
rights  of  the  poor,  and  for  being  the  mouthpiece 
of  much  of  the  want  and  discontent  of  the  workers 
in  the  North.  Alton  Locke's  character  is  said  to  be 
based  upon  that  of  Thomas  Cooper,  and  I  can  well 
remember  what  a  glow  of  satisfaction  I  felt  when  I 
recalled  how  1  had  walked  up  the  Baptist  Chapel  at 
Watford  and  shaken  hands  with  him. 

Branded  as  a  Chartist  and  Atheist,  Thomas  Cooper, 
like  the  great-hearted  man  he  was,  fought  nobly  with 
his  religious  and  political  doubts,  and  for  some  years 
after  he  had  turned  to  Christianity  was  continually 
preaching  and  lecturing  in  aid  of  the  truth.  This 
was  the  man  Kingsley  took  as  the  hero  of  his 
book — though  in  personal  appearance  they  did  not 
resemble  each  other,  for  Thomas  Cooper  was  a  tall, 
handsome   man,  while  Alton    Locke    is  puny,  and    in 


Ii6  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

the  end  of  the  story  dies  of  consumption,  while  Cooper 
lived  to  a  ripe  old  age.  One  of  the  best  characters 
in  the  book  is  Sandy  Mackaye,  newspaper  editor, 
lecturer,  and  Chartist  spouter.  Sandy  has  a  touch 
of  Carlyle  about  him,  and  uses  pretty  strong  language, 
but  not  a  whit  too  strong  ;  it  must  have  awakened 
many  a  large-hearted  man,  and  the  world  is  the 
better  for  hearing  these  truths.  I  know  it  made 
the  heart  of  a  delicate  girl  hot  with  indignation  and 
anger  that  such  things  should  be.  How  I  pitied 
Alton  Locke  !  How  1  should  have  liked  to  torture  the 
sweaters  !  I  longed  to  be  a  man,  that  I  might  do 
something  to  redress  some  of  these  wrongs  ;  and 
then  I  remembered  that  Alton  Locke  had  been  written 
long  ago,  that  the  Chartist  movement  was  over,  and 
that  I  had  been  born  at  least  two  decades  too  late. 
The  Chartist  parson,  soldier  priest,  was  a  chaplain 
to  the  Queen,  tutor  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  a 
canon  of  Chester  Cathedral.  I  heard  him  preach 
in  a  West  End  church — I  believe  it  was  St.  James's, 
Piccadilly  ;  could  anything  be  more  removed  from 
one's  ideas  of  the  author  of  Alton  Locke  } 

I  do  not  remember  the  sermon,  but  I  know  it 
was  well  delivered,  in  a  clear,  even,  flowing  voice  ; 
and  I  should  have  been  astonished,  had  not  my  father 
mentioned  it  to  me,  that  Kingsley  stammered — not 
in  preaching,  but  in  ordinary  conversation.  After 
the  service  we  waited  in  the  church,  and  Mr.  Kingsley 
came  and  spoke  to  us.      I  remember  we  stood  in   the 


*' Marie  Antoinette**  117 

aisle,  and  that  the  sun  shone  full  upon  Kingsley's 
tall,  lithe  form  and  broad  shoulders,  which  stooped 
a  little.  I  was  struck  with  his  deep-set,  brilliant 
eyes,  aquiline  nose,  and  tightly  shut  lips  ;  1  thought 
he  looked  thin  and  worn  and  not  happy.  The  sun 
being  in  his  eyes,  I  suppose  he  did  not  at  first  see 
me,  for  when  my  father  introduced  me  he  looked 
as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost,  and  stood  and  held  my 
hand  as  he  exclaimed : 

"  She's — she's  like — Marie  Antoinette." 

I  do  not  know  what  1  expected  the  author  of  Alton 
Locke  to  say,  but  I  was  so  completely  taken  by 
surprise,  so  keenly  disappointed,  that  tears  started  to 
my  eyes,  and  Kingsley  saw  them,  though  I  turned 
quickly  away  to  hide  them. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  offended  your  daughter,"  he 
said. 

"  Oh  no,"  replied  my  father,  and  he  went  on  talking, 
Kingsley  listening,  but  looking  every  now  and  then 
at  me  with  that  same  half-awed,  half-admiring  ex- 
pression. How  I  wished  I  could  be  invisible,  and 
then  perhaps  he  would  have  talked  like  some  of  the 
heroes  in  his  books,  instead  of  looking  at  me,  because 
he  saw  in  me  the  ghost  of  that  unfortunate  Queen  ! 


CHAPTER    X 

THE  PLAY — THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES'S  THEATRE — MARIE  WILTON — MR. 
MONTAGUE — S.  J.RICE,  AND  "  PROPOSALS  FROM  THE  FAIR  SEX  " — 
BEHIND  THE  SCENES — CRESWICK — "  TRUE  TO  THE  CORE  " — 
CRESWICK  AS  "  HAMLET  " — IRVING  AS  HAMLET — HENRY  MARSTON — 
PHELPS — MARSTON  IN  DANGER  OF  HIS  LIFE — MISS  MARRIOTT. 

WE  were  all  very  fond  of  the  play,  and  in  the 
days  of  which  I  am  writing  we  used  to  go 
to  the  theatre  three  or  four  times  a  week  ;  that  and 
dancing  were  my  favourite  amusements — but,  alas ! 
dancing,  except  square  dances,  was  tabooed,  for  Dr. 
Richardson,  every  time  he  saw  me,  said  impressively  : 
"  Mind,  no  violent  exercise,  young  lady." 
But  there  are  usually  compensations  ;  and  for  the 
lonely  hours  I  spent  in  my  room  on  my  board,  there 
were  the  nights  at  the  play,  where  if  we  had  a  box 
I   had  always  the   best  and  most  comfortable  seat. 

I  can  remember  going  to  uproarious  first  nights 
when  the  house  has  not  only  been  full  to  overflowing, 
but  enthusiastic,  for  people  showed  more  appreciation 
then  ;  their  enthusiasm  too  was  of  the  right  sort, 
for  no  such  silly  scenes  as  occurred  in  the  streets 
on  the  night  of  the  relief  of  Mafeking  would  have 
been  tolerated. 

Il8 


The  Prince  of  Wales's  Theatre  1 1 9 

"  Now  if  you  can  be  quick  and  put  a  rose  in  your 
hair,  Lollie,  we  will  go  to  the  play,"  my  father  would 
often  say,  and  you  may  be  sure  I  was  quick.  Off  we 
went,  often  walking  there  and  back.  Living  so  near 
we  seldom  drove  home,  for  the  walk  through  the  quiet 
streets  we  all  enjoyed. 

In  those  days,  in  a  little  street  off  Tottenham 
Court  Road  stood  the  Prince  of  Wales's  Theatre,  one 
of  the  most  fashionable  resorts  of  the  time  ;  it  was 
the  prettiest,  most  charming  little  house  imaginable, 
for  it  was  under  Marie  Wilton's  (now  Lady  Bancroft) 
management,  and  was  all  upholstered  in  palest  blue, 
and  there  were  white  antimacassars  over  the  backs  of 
the  chairs  in  the  stalls,  boxes,  and  dress  circle.  White 
antimacassars  may  not  sound  artistic  to  modern  ears, 
but  they  were  the  fashion  then,  and  very  clean,  lacy, 
and  pretty  they  looked  in  that  theatre.  From  one  of 
the  boxes  of  this  house,  accompanied  by  different 
members  of  my  family,  I  more  than  once  saw  all 
Robertson's  plays — Caste,  Society^  Ours,  School.  How 
very  pretty  they  were,  and  how  well  acted  !  Caste  was 
the  first  I  saw  and  was  my  favourite.  Honey's  acting 
of  "Old  Eccles,"  the  drunken  father,  was  inimitable  ; 
it  was  a  fine  study  of  character,  that  in  these  de- 
generate days  is  seldom,  if  ever,  seen  ;  for  it  would 
seem  that  spectacular  representations  and  musical 
comedies  are  the  only  things  that  the  weak  and  tired 
brains  of  the  present  generation  can  stand,  so  there 
is  little  or   no  chance  for   fine   acting.     We   were  all 


I20  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

charmed  with  Marie  Wilton,  especially  in  the  character 
of  "  Polly  Eccles,"  and  I,  like  most  young  girls,  longed 
to  go  on  the  stage.  But  "  Charles  D'Alroy  "  was  the 
character  that  all  my  friends,  young  and  old,  were  in 
love  with.  "  Charles  D'Alroy,"  or,  as  "  Polly  Eccles  " 
called  him  in  the  play,  "  Charles  D-Al-Roy,"  was  then 
acted  by  a  Mr.  Montague,  a  young,  good-looking  man, 
who  died  early.  My  favourites  were  "  Sam  Gerridge  " 
(Hare)  and  "  Captain  Hawtry  "  (Bancroft)  ;  I  was 
charmed  with  them  both,  and  could  not  make  up  my 
mind  between  them.  I  had  many  an  argument  with 
my  girl  friends,  in  which  I  tried  to  prove  their 
superior  attractions  ;  but  it  was  all  of  no  use,  Montague 
was  the  favourite — indeed,  it  was  said  in  literary 
circles  that  all  the  ladies  were  in  love  with  him,  and 
Mr.  Rice*  strenuously  assured  me  that  Montague 
had  two  or  three  proposals  a  day  from  the  fair  sex. 
I  argued  that  no  woman  ever  did,  or  would  do,  such 
a  thing  ;  Mr.  Rice  smiled  cynically,  and  I  exclaimed, 
with  more  heat  than  politeness,  "  You  can  say  so  till 
Doomsday  if  you  like,  but   I   shall   not   believe   it." 

"  Ask  him,"  said  Mr.  Rice,  "  you  are  sure  to 
meet  him  some  day.     Just  ask  him." 

Not  long  after  I  did  meet  him  at  a  railway  station, 
and  I  thought  of  asking  him  ;  but  though  my  father 
had  a  long  talk  with  him  he  did  not  introduce  him 
to  me,  so  I  never  had  the  chance  to  put  the  question  ; 

*  Editor  of  Once  a  Week,  and  afterwards  collaborator  with  Walter 
Besant. 


On  the  Stage  121 

but  as  they  talked  I  looked  well  at  the  actor,  and 
made  up  my  mind  that,  good-looking  as  the  young 
man  no  doubt  was,  a  woman  could  not  and  would 
not  do  such  a  thing  as  propose  or  even  write  to  him. 
But  before  I  came  to  this  conclusion  I  had  looked 
so  long  at  "  Charles  D-Al-Roy,"  as  we  all  called  him, 
that  I  am  sure  he  took  me  for  another  victim,  for 
he  gave  me  a  polite  bow  and  a  pleasant  but  pitying 
smile  as  he  said   "  Good-bye "    to   my  father. 

The  first  time  I  went  behind  the  scenes  was  at  the 
Prince  of  Wales's  Theatre.  I  went  with  my  flither 
one  brilliant  June  afternoon  ;  he  wished  to  see  the 
stage  manager.  We  had  been  buying  strawberries, 
and  we  went  on  to  the  stage  and  sat  on  three 
cane  chairs  and  ate  them.  While  my  father  and 
the  manager  talked  I  looked  round  me.  The  curtain 
was  up,  but  the  house  looked  inexpressibly  dreary 
in  the  half-twilight,  with  the  seats  covered  in  brown 
holland.  A  theatre  in  the  daytime  is  always  dark, 
but  it  was  not  too  dark  to  see  the  dust  on  gas 
brackets,  ornaments,  etc.  ;  it  wanted  the  gas,  the  band, 
and  above  all  the  brilliantly  dressed  audience,  to  make 
it  a  cheerful  place.  It  was  dreary  in  the  extreme 
without  those  adjuncts,  and  so  I  thought.  Then  I 
turned  my  attention  to  the  stage  ;  they  were  playing 
School  at  that  time,  and  there  is  a  most  realistic 
and  delightful  wood  scene  in  the  play  ;  parts  of  this 
scene  were  lying  all  round  me.  The  grass  that  looked 
so  green  and  real,  on  a  nearer  inspection  looked  like 


122  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

old  green  baize  and  a  greenish-yellow  string  ;  the  trees 
and  flowers  were  mere  daubs  of  paint  laid  on  in  the 
roughest  manner  ;  the  fallen  tree  trunk,  that  was  so 
realistic  from  the  front  of  the  house,  was  a  sham. 
After  some  time  my  father  and  the  manager  rose, 
and  the  latter  offered  to  show  me  some  more  stage 
properties  ;  so  we  wandered  round,  and  he  told  some 
of  the  scene  shifters  to  move  the  scenes  for  my  benefit, 
to  open  trap-doors,  and  so  on.  When  we  at  last 
emerged  into  the  street,  my  father  said  : 

"  Well,  now  you  have  had  all  your  illusions  destroyed. 
You  will  never  believe  in  those  charming  scenes  again, 
for  you  know  how  they  are  managed." 

"  I  shall  make  up  my  mind  to  forget  it,"  said  I 
promptly. 

"  That's  wise,"  replied  my  father  ;  "  always  try  to 
keep  some  illusions.  I  hope  you  will  to  the  end 
of  your  life,  for  those  who  do  are  the  happiest 
people." 

Mr.  William  Creswick,  the  actor,  lived  in  Bloomsbury 
Square,  and  he  and  his  sons  were  constant  visitors 
at  our  house.  Mr.  Creswick  was  then,  I  should 
think,  about  fifty  years  of  age,  but  he  looked  very 
much  younger.  He  had  a  fine  figure,  and  a  good- 
looking  face,  and  was  still  playing  the  premier  jeune 
homme.  It  was  in  the  days  when  Creswick  and 
Sheppard  were  joint  managers  of  the  Surrey  Theatre. 
It  was  there  that  the  prize  play  True  to  the  Core^ 
was   acted.     We   had    a    box    for    the  first  night  ;    it 


''True  to  the  Core"  123 

was  a  very  large  box,  running  a  long  way  back,  and 
Mr.  Creswick  often  put  it  at  our  disposal.  The 
whole  family  used  to  go,  my  governess  included. 
Those  were  gala  nights,  for  between  the  acts,  when 
the  band  played  a  set  of  quadrilles,  we  often  danced 
them  at  the  back  of  the  box,  Mr.  James  Creswick 
and  his  brother,  if  they  were  in  the  house,  coming  in 
to  assist. 

True  to  the  Core  had  a  very  good  cast.  Mr. 
Creswick  was  the  hero,  "  Martin  Truegold  "  ;  Henry 
Marston,  *'  Dangerfield,"  a  Romish  priest  ;  and  Miss 
Pauncefort,  "  Marah,"  a  gipsy  girl,  and  the  heroine 
of  the  play.  I  do  not  remember  the  plot  at  this 
length  of  time,  but  I  can  recall  the  admirable  acting 
of  Miss  Pauncefort,  Mr.  Creswick,  and  Marston.  I 
saw  the  piece  again  at  the  Princess's,  where  all  the 
principal  characters  were  played  by  the  same  artists, 
with  Nellie  Moore,  a  charming  actress,  as  "  Mabel 
Truegold."  The  scenery  was  exceedingly  good ;  it 
included  Plymouth  Hoe,  the  deck  of  La  Fa^  the 
ramparts  of  Old  Plymouth,  and,  what  I  remember 
best  of  all,  the  black  rock  of  Eddystone.  The  ship 
is  wrecked,  and  the  scene  picturing  the  rocks  and  the 
sea  was  wonderfully  done  and  quite  thrilling.  But 
actors  often  overlook  small  details,  and  I  can  recall 
all  the  shipwrecked  people  looking  very  spick-and- 
span — the  ladies  with  their  hair  most  elaborately  done 
had  not  a  hair  out  of  place  ;  the  gentlemen  had  their 
coats  off,  it  is   true,   but   they  were  seen   clinging  to 


124  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

the  rocks  in  clean  starched  shirts  !  My  mother 
remarked  this,  and  laughingly  asked  Mr.  Creswick 
how  it  happened  that  the  immersion  had  not  taken 
the  starch  out.  The  next  time  we  saw  True  to  the 
Core,  the  shipwrecked  people  looked  less  well-dressed 
and  more  woe-begone. 

My  mother,  and  indeed  all  of  us,  often  used  to 
point  out  little  details  that  had  been  overlooked.  I 
remember  one  in  The  Bells,  which  my  mother  told 
Mr.  Irving  on  the  first  night,  when  he  returned  to 
our  house  to  supper.  People  who  have  seen  the  play 
may  remember  that  the  first  scene  is  a  small  inn,  in 
the  depths  of  the  country,  and  that  there  is  supposed 
to  have  been  a  deep  fall  of  snow — in  fact,  it  is  still 
snowing.  The  innkeeper,  "  Matthias "  (Irving), 
walked  in,  on  that  first  night,  in  ordinary  black  boots, 
with  no  snow  upon  them.  My  mother  spoke  of  it, 
and  afterwards  "  Matthias "  wore  high  black  boots, 
and  stood  on  the  mat  while  the  snow  was  brushed  off 
them.  Remarks  were  made  in  the  papers  as  to  Mr. 
Irving's  attention  to  the  minutest  details,  and  this  was 
cited  as  an  instance.  It  also  enhanced  the  effect  of 
his  entrance. 

The  first  "  Hamlet  "  I  saw  was  Creswick's.  The 
actor  had  found  out  that  I  had  never  seen  the  play, 
and  promised  me  a  box  the  next  time  he  played  that 
character.  Many  months  elapsed,  but  Mr.  Creswick 
did  not  forget  his  promise,  as  may  be  seen  from  the 
following  letter  : 


William  Creswick  125 

"  8,  Bloomsbury  Square, 

'^November  2^th. 
"Dear  Laura, 

"  Mr,  Phelps,  being  prevented  by  indisposition, 
does  not  appear  as  '  Richelieu  '  to-night,  and  so  I  have 
to  don  my  sable  and  play  '  Hamlet.'  1  do  myself  the 
pleasure  of  forwarding  an  order  for  a  P.B.,  and  shall 
be  glad  if  it  would  be  convenient  to  yourself  and  three 
friends  to  occupy  it. 

*' Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  Wm.  Creswick." 

I  was  delighted,  and  felt  highly  honoured,  and 
quite  grown  up,  at  his  having  sent  the  box  to  me 
personally.  1  shall  never  forget  that  night.  I  was 
not  familiar  with  the  play,  though  I  was  a  devoted 
student  of  Shakespeare,  even  in  my  early  childhood, 
for  at  ten  years  old  I  took  two  huge  volumes 
containing  all  his  plays  to  school  with  me.  I  used 
to  sit  upon  a  small  table,  placed  underneath  some  book- 
shelves in  the  schoolroom  at  Watford,  and,  cross-legged 
like  a  Turk,  head  bowed,  get  it  under  the  bookshelves, 
pore  over  The  Tempest^  As  You  Like  It^  and  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing.  Hamlet  I  never  attempted,  possibly 
because  I  had  had  to  learn  the  soliloquy,  an  im- 
possible task  for  a  child  to  render  properly.  But 
living  amongst  literary  people  I  could  not  be  quite 
ignorant  of  the  play;  yet  I  was  so  enthralled, 
surprised,  and  horrified  at  the  end  of  it  that  I  exclaimed 
aloud  : 


126  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  Why,  they  are  all  killed  ! — 1  did  not  know  that. 
Oh,   I   am  sorry  !  " 

1  clasped  my  hands  in  an  agony,  and  my  voice 
rang  out  in  the  silent  house. 

"  Hush  !  sit  down  !  "  some  one  said  in  a  whisper, 
and  I  sank  into  my  seat  with  a  sigh  as  the  curtain 
came  down.  I  was  amazed  to  find  I  had  been 
standing  up,  but  Mr.  James  Creswick  told  me 
I  had  been  standing  a  long  time,  and  that  he  had 
been  on  the  watch  to  see  that  I  did  not  fall  out  of 
the  box. 

It  was  many  years  after  that  1  saw  Irving's  "  Ham- 
let." I  did  not  like  it  so  well  as  Creswick's.  In 
the  first  place,  Creswick,  like  Fechter,  made  the 
Prince  of  Denmark  fair,  and  the  usual  idea  of  Danes 
is  that  they  are  a  fair  people  (though  I  have  been 
told  that  it  is  not  the  case)  ;  then  Mr.  Creswick, 
having  a  very  good  figure,  looked  princely,  and  he 
always  walked  the  stage  so  beautifully  that,  as  I  once 
read  in  The  Saturday  Review,  "  he  could  give  a  lesson 
in  dignity  to  princes."  *  After  seeing  his  "  Hamlet," 
Irving's  seemed  to  me  nothing  but  a  caricature  ;  I 
thought  he  looked  like  a  bandit  in  a  melodrama, 
and  that  he  was  undignified  all  through  the  play  ; 
but  it  reached  its  climax  when,  in  the  Player  scene, 
he  leapt  upon  the  throne  and,  kneeling,  waved 
a  peacock's  feather  fan  round  his  head  in  a  wild 
manner. 

*  The  play  was  King  John 


Henry  Marston  127 

Phelps  I  saw  as  "  Othello  "  and  Henry  Marston  as 
"  lago."  Mr,  Marston  acted  this  character  with  such 
Satanic  villainy  and  gusto  that  the  pit  and  gallery 
used  to  hoot  and  hiss  him  off  the  stage,  to  his  s^reat 
dehght.  I  had  known  Mr.  Marston  from  my  earliest 
infancy,  as  a  kind  and  gentle  friend,  who  petted  me 
and  talked  to  me  in  the  pleasantest  of  voices.  My 
bewilderment  was  great  when  I  saw  him  as  "  lago  " — 
his  slyness,  his  hollow  voice,  and  deceitful  behaviour, 
the  way  in  which  he  folded  his  arms  and  glared  at 
the  other  characters,  made  me  quite  ready  to  join 
in  the  groans  and  the  hisses — in  fact,  I  could  not 
believe  that  this  dreadful  character  was  my  friend 
Mr.  Marston.  But  the  climax  to  my  astonishment 
was  his  huge  delight  at  the  feeling  of  the  audience 
against  him. 

"There!  did  you  hear  them,  Friswell  ?  "  he 
would  say  to  my  father,  "  Don't  I  make  them 
hate  me  ?  " 

On  the  stage  his  voice  was  not  unlike  Mr.  Irving's, 
but  more  hollow  ;  it  was  exactly  what  it  should  be 
for  the  Ghost  of  Hamlet's  father,  which  I  have  seen 
him  play,  but  it  was  not  so  well  adapted  to  other 
characters.  I  am  sure  *' Othello  "  would  never  have 
trusted  an  "  lago  "  with  such  a  voice  and  manner  ;  but 
the  unction  with  which  Mr.  Marston  played  the  part 
was  no  doubt  the  cause  of  the  pit  and  gallery  groaning 
and  hissing,  which  they  did  nearly  the  whole  time 
he  was  on   the  stage.     In  a   room  his  voice  was  not 


128  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

peculiar,  so  it  must  have  been  the  effect  of  raising 
it,  and  the  acoustic  qualities  of  the  building,  that 
caused  the  change. 

I  used  to  hear  a  great  deal  about  Mr.  Phelps  from 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wharton  Simpson  ;  they  were  great 
admirers  of  his,  and  told  me  how  devoted  his 
wife  was  to  him  ;  it  was  said  she  always  helped  him 
dress,  and  used  to  stand  at  the  wings  night  after 
night  all  the  years  he  was  playing  at  Sadler's  Wells. 
Though  I  was  very  young  indeed  at  the  time,  I  can 
recall  him  distinctly — the  curious  nasal  tone  of  his 
voice,  also  a  bad  habit  he  had  of  clutching  at  his 
shoulder,  every  few  minutes. 

As  a  child  I  must  have  been  to  Sadler's  Wells, 
although  I  cannot  recall  anything  about  it  in  its  palmy 
days ;  but  my  father  and  mother  frequently  went 
during  Mr.  Phelps's  management,  and  I  believe  saw 
all  Shakespeare's  plays  there.  I  know  they  knew 
several  of  the  principal  actors.  Mr.  Marston  told 
my  mother  that  he  fought  a  duel  every  night  in 
danger  of  his  life  when  he  was  acting  the  "  Duke  of 
Buckingham  "  in  John  Saville  of  Haysted,  a  play  which 
had  a  long  run.  1  he  actor  George  Bennett,  who 
played  "  Felton "  (who  assassinates  the  Duke)  was 
so  much  in  earnest  that  Marston  dared  not  take 
his  eyes  off  him  for  an  instant,  or  he  would  have 
been  run  through,  for  Bennett  was  transformed — he 
was  Felton. 

It  was    there    that    my    father    and    mother    saw 


Miss  Marriott  129 

Browning's  beautiful  poetical  play,  A  Blot  on  the 
Scutcheon.  It  was  very  finely  acted,  the  actor  who 
played  the  lover  having  the  most  beautiful  and  sym- 
pathetic voice.  My  mother  says  that  Mr.  Phelps 
and  Miss  Cooper  acted  so  charmingly  that  it  made 
an  evening  never  to  be  forgotten. 

All  this  happened  when  I  was  an  infant,  *'  crying 
for  the  light,"  as  Tennyson  puts  it,  or  it  may  have 
been  in  the  days  of  that  privileged  young  person 
Toddlekins,  when  she  was  safely  tucked  up  in  bed, 
and  fast  asleep,  dreaming  of  the  games  with  her  father, 
or  of  her  friend  George  Cruikshank,  and  those 
wonderful  tales  Cinderella  and  Hop-o  -my-Thumb.  I 
fancy  it  was  then  that  the  young  couple  used  to 
go  out,  leaving  their  children  in  charge  of  the  faithful 
Mary  Ann  ;  and  one  may  be  sure  that  "  the  world 
went  very  well  then,"  even  though  the  young  author 
was  unknown  to  fame,  and  had  not  been  asked  to 
write  an  address  for  the  Clerkenwell  Benevolent  Fund, 
to  be  spoken  by  Miss  Marriott,  on  the  boards  of 
Sadler's  Wells.  That  happened  years  afterwards,  and 
I  well  remember  the  night. 

It  was  in  November,  '67.  Miss  Marriott  was  acting 
in  The  Jealous  Wife^  and  was  to  deliver  the  address 
at  the  end  of  the  piece.  A  private  box  was  sent  to 
my  father  ;  my  mother  and  he  were  dining  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Routledge  that  night,  but  he 
thought  some  one  ought  to  go,  and  therefore  sent 
Miss  W (my  governess),  the  Philosopher,  and  me. 

9 


130  In   the    Sixties   and   Seventies 

We  arrived  a  little  late,  but  before  the  commence- 
ment of  the  piece.  The  theatre  was  literally  packed 
from  floor  to  ceiling  ;  all  the  boxes  were  full  except 
one,  level  with  the  stage  ;  the  people  were  clapping 
for  the  curtain  to  rise,  and  the  attendants  seemed  not 
to  know  what  to  do  with  us,  as  they  had  sold  the 
box  reserved  for  us.  Not  an  inch  of  room  was  to 
be  found  in  the  dress  circle,  or  they  would  have  put 
some  chairs  for  us — "  would  we  mind  the  stage  box  ?  " 

Miss  W '-  and  the   Philosopher  said  we  would  not, 

so  we  were  escorted  down  some  dirty  wooden  stairs, 
till  we  stood  amongst  the  scenes,  and  could  see  between 
the  wings  on  to  the  stage.  There  a  gentleman  in 
gorgeous  robes  met  us  and  again  apologised  ;  we 
found  afterwards  he  was  "  the  Duke  of  Mantua " 
in  the  piece.  A  sheet  of  iron  hung  just  outside  the 
box  door — we  had  almost  to  stoop  under  it  as  we 
went  in  ;  the  Philosopher  whispered  to  me,  "  That's 
the  thunder." 

The  box  was  too  near  the  stage,  and  very  small  ; 
but  we  enjoyed  ourselves  immensely  by  looking  on 
and  off  the  stage,  for  no  sooner  had  the  curtain  gone 
down  than  we  opened  the  box  door  and  listened  to 
the  dialogue  without ;  and  we  were  immensely  amused 
and  yet  somewhat  scandalised  at  Miss  Marriott's  acting 
of  the  heart-broken  wife — all  tears  and  sweetness  in 
front  of  the  house — and  her  strong  language  and  anger 
behind  the  scenes,  where  she  scolded  an  unfortunate 
attendant     unmercifully     for    not    being    quicker    in 


At  Sadler^s  Wells  131 

bringing  her  Jace  pocket-handkerchief.  In  the  midst 
of  the  railing,  and  when  she  was  stamping  her  foot 
and  red  in  the  face  with  anger,  the  call  came  for  her  to 
appear  ;  she  dabbed  the  tiny  piece  of  lace  to  her  eyes 
and  was  all  softness  and  tears  instantly,  the  redness 
of  her  face  enhancing  the  effect,  for  she  looked  as 
if  she  had  been  crying  for  a  month. 

The  next  time  she  came  off  she  scolded  the  prompter 
and  argued  about  some  word  he  ought  to  have  given, 
he  saying  "I  did!"  she  "You  didn't!"  at  least  a 
dozen  times.  This  man  also  had  to  manipulate  the 
thunder,  which  "  occurred  at  the  wrong  time,"  accord- 
ing to  Miss  Marriott  ;  but  I  really  do  not  think 
there  was  much  wrong,  for  she  was  a  very  good  actress 
indeed,  and  the  audience  was  enthusiastic,  the  applause 
being  quite  as  loud  as  the  thunder,  and  that  is  saying 
a  great  deal,  for  it  was  terrific — absolutely  deafening. 
We  all  laughed  immoderately  when  we  came  away, 
but  we  tried  our  best  to  keep  a  grave  face  in  front 
of  the  stage,  for  fear  Miss  Marriott's  eagle  eye  should 
see  us  ;  for  The  Jealous  Wife  is  a  pathetic  piece — or  so 
I  believe,  for  I  do  not  remember  anything  about  it,  as 
we  were  too  much  engrossed  in  the  scenes  at  the  back. 
I  only  remember  two  incidents  that  occurred  in  front. 
The    first    was    rather    comic  and   made    us  all  laugh. 

There  were  no  stalls,  the  pit  came  up  to  the  orchestra, 
and  one  end  of  our  box  was  close  to  the  front  row 
of  the  pit.  The  pit  in  those  days,  besides  indulging 
in  "  /?apples,  /^oranges,  ginger  beer,  and  a  bill  of  the 


132  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

play,"  which  were  sold  in  the  house,  brought  its  own 
refreshments  in  baskets  and  bags,  stone  jars  and  glass 
bottles.  They  used  to  put  the  bottles,  and  even  the 
jars,  to  their  mouths — at  any  rate  that  was  what 
happened  at  Sadler's  Wells  that  night,  though  the  more 
refined  brought  a  glass  without  a  foot,  or,  like  Mrs. 
Brown  at  the  Play,  "  a  -^egg-cup."  I  sat,  as  I  usually 
did,  in  the  best  place  farthest  from  the  stage,  and 
once  when  the  curtain  fell  a  man  got  up  and  held 
out  a  glass  of  port  to  me,  saying  : 

"  Take  this,  missie  ;  my  wife  says  it'll  bring  some 
colour  into  your  poor  pale  face." 

I  laughed  and  shook  my  head. 

"  Do  now,  it's  good  wine,"  he  said  ;  "  we  mean  no 
offence." 

"  I'm  sure  you  don't,"  I  replied. 

"  And  you  won't  have  it .'' — Then  here's  to  your 
better  health,  and  God  bless  your  bonnie  bright  eyes  !  " 

The  man  drank  off  the  wine,  and  then  the  woman 
had  some,  nodding  and  smiling  at  me,  and  I  smiled 
back  and  thanked  them. 

The  next  incident  was  the  arrival  of  my  father  and 
mother  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Routledge  in  full 
evening  dress.  They  were  shown  into  the  box  by 
"  the  Duke  of  Mantua  "  ;  and  how  we  all  laughed,  "  the 
Duke  "  included — there  was  scarcely  standing  room. 

Miss  Marriott  delivered  the  address  beautifully. 
There  was  great  enthusiasm,  and  cries  of  "  Author  ! 
Author  !   '     But  my  father  did  not  appear. 


CHAPTER    XI 

MR.  J.  L.  TOOLE — HIS  PRACTICAL  JOKES — ^IRVING  IN  "  DEARER  THAN 
life" — MR.  W.  S.  GILBERT — "THE  HOUSE  WHERE  THE  PLAGUE 
BROKE   OUT." 

MR.  J.  L.  TOOLE  we  were  very  fond  of 
going  to  see,  I  was  especially  pleased  at 
seeing  him  in  My  Turn  Next,  and  Ici  on  parte  Franfais. 
In  both  these  farces  he  represented  an  irritable,  worried 
and  alarmed  little  man  wonderfully.  He  was  very 
funny,  too,  when  he  acted  with  Paul  Bedford  in  The 
Area  Bell.  These  were  all  short  farces  before  a 
longer  piece,  for  in  those  days  people  dined  earlier 
and  spent  more  time  at  the  play.  Then  how 
charmingly  he  played  "  Uncle  Dick  "  in  Uncle  Dick's 
Darling,  and  an  old  tradesman  in  Dearer  than  Life  ! 
I  should  not  care  to  see  any  of  these  plays  now, 
without  Mr.  Toole. 

He  and  my  father  were  very  good  friends,  I  have 
several  letters  written  by  him  to  my  father,  from 
various  theatres  where  he  was  playing.  One  lies  before 
me  now,  written  from  the  Standard  Theatre,  in  which 
he  jokes  my  father  about  leaving  his  property  behind 
him. 

133 


134  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

*'  You  are  evidently  rehearsing  Paul  Pry,  leaving 
your  umbrella  behind  ;  before  you  have  this,  you  have 
doubtless  shed  tears  of  joy  at  its  restoration.  Thanks 
for  your  invite  for  Boy,  but  he  is  away  at  Brighton 
with  his  mamma — if  time  permits  before  his  return  to 
school,  he  shall  annoy  you." 

"  Boy  "  was  the  actor's  son,  whose  death  when  he 
had  barely  reached  manhood  was  so  sad.  It  was 
caused  by  an  accident  at  cricket,  while  at  school.  I 
remember  sitting  next  him  and  his  mother,  on  the 
first  night  of  The  Two  Roses  ;  he  was  then  a  very 
good-looking  child,  with  long,  curling  yellow  hair. 

Toole  was  well  known  for  his  practical  jokes  both 
on  and  ofF  the  stage.  In  Dearer  than  Life^  as  I  have 
said,  he  acted  the  part  of  an  old  tradesman  who  has 
been  ruined  by  the  loss  of  some  money  which  his  son 
is  supposed  to  have  stolen.  The  tradesman  then  takes 
a  post  as  porter  in  a  warehouse.  Lionel  Brough 
acted  the  part  of  a  drunken  reprobate,  brother  to 
the  porter,  and  called  "  Uncle  Ben,"  whose  bad  habits 
have  brought  him  to  the  workhouse.  His  represen- 
tation of  the  wretched,  drunken  old  man  was  a  most 
wonderfully  lifelike  piece  of  acting. 

One  fine  day  Toole  and  Brough  determined  to 
have  their  portraits  taken,  as  the  porter  and  Uncle 
Ben  ;  so,  dressed  in  their  costumes — Toole  in  ragged, 
patched  clothes,  boots  very  much  the  worse  for  wear, 
and   an  old  piece  of  sacking  over  his  shoulders,  with 


Mr.  J.  L.  Toole  135 

GLASS  WITH  CARE  on  it,  and  Brough  In  a  work- 
house suit,  his  face  made  up  to  look  sodden  with 
drink — they  set  out  for  the  photographers.  Passing 
through  Grosvenor  Square,  on  their  way  to  Regent 
Street,  Toole  proposed  that  they  should  call  at  one  of 
the  large  houses  there.  This  they  did,  knocking  a  re- 
sounding double  knock.  A  smart  footman  threw  open 
the  door,  and  gazed  in  supercilious  amazement  at  them. 

"  Is  your  master  at  home  ?  "  asked  Toole  quickly. 

"  No,  he's  not  ! "  said  the  man,  about  to  bang 
the  door. 

*'  Tell  him  that  his  brothers,  the  porter  and  the 
pauper,  called  ;  and  we'll  come  back  later  in  the 
afternoon." 

The  footman  was  too  much  astonished  to  do  more 
than  stare  as  the  two  old  men  turned  away,  and  went 
slowly  down  the  steps  into  the  street. 

Every  one  who  has  seen  Toole  must  remember 
how  fond  he  was  of  "gag";  rather  too  fond,  for 
interpolating  little  sentences  of  his  own  often  made 
the  laugh  come  in  the  wrong  place.  For  instance  : 
on  the  first  night  of  Dearer  than  Life  my  mother 
and  I  were  in  a  box,  while  my  father  and  several 
journalists  sat  in  the  stalls.  Mr.  Toole,  in  the 
character  of  the  porter,  said,  during  a  pathetic  soliloquy, 
and  with  a  solemn  shake  of  his  head  : 

"Ah,  I  am  very  fortunate  to  get  into  Friswell 
Brothers  ;  it's  a  good  firm,  and  they  are  a  good  sort 
— especially  that  Mr.   Hain,   he's  a  trump." 


136  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

This  caused  my  father  and  his  friends  to  laugh, 
and  a  laugh  in  a  theatre  is  infectious  ;  thus  Toole 
upset  the  pathos  of  the  scene — like  Dickens,  who, 
in  his  most  pathetic  scenes,  usually  introduces  some 
clownish  trick  (I  can  call  it  nothing  else)  and  so  spoils 
the  whole  effect.  Older  people  may  not  object  to 
this  kind  of  fun,  but  the  young,  who  take  life  earnestly, 
do  not  like  their  illusions  destroyed  ;  the  play,  or 
the  story,  is  real  to  them  for  the  time  being,  and  to 
write  or  say  something  to  cause  a  laugh  is  most 
inartistic,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  Who  does  not 
regret  that  passage  in  Dombey  and  Son^  where  Captain 
Cuttle,  in  his  agitation  in  breaking  the  news  of  his 
nephew's  return  to  Florence,  rubs  his  bald  head  with 
a  piece  of  toast,  and  then  puts  it  into  his  hat,  thinking 
it  is  his  pocket-handkerchief?  It  is  too  ridiculous, 
and  a  blot  on  the  whole  scene. 

I  heard  of  another  of  Mr,  Toole's  jokes,  which 
occurred  at  Brighton,  The  actor  had  hit  upon  a 
good  idea  of  advertising  himself,  and  had  had  a 
quantity  of  small  round  discs  printed  and  gummed 
at  the  back  ;  these  he  stuck  on  the  windows  of  railway 
carriages,  cabs,  omnibuses,  and  so  on.  He  went 
down  to  Brighton  to  act,  and  put  up  at  the 
Bedford  Hotel ;  and  the  next  day,  on  tables,  chairs, 
looking-glasses,  curtains,  anywhere  and  everywhere, 
little  coloured  paper  discs  appeared,  with  Go  and  see 
Toole  printed  on  them, 

I   first  saw  Irving  at  the  Queen's  Theatre,   in  Long 


Mr.  W.  S,  Gilbert  i37 

Acre.  He  was  playing  with  Toole  in  Dearer  than 
Life.  Toole  took  the  principal  character,  while  Irving 
played  "Bob  Gasset,"  a  very  common  young  man,  who 
kept  smoothing  his  very  much  oiled  hair  with  his 
hand,  and  rapping  his  teeth  with  his  cane.  Nellie 
Moore,  a  charming  actress,  with  beautiful  fair  hair,  like 
silkworms'  silk,  was  the  heroine.  It  seems  curious  now 
to  think  of  Sir  Henry  Irving  playing  such  a  part  as 
"  Bob  Gasset,"  but  I  can  remember  how  cleverly  it  was 
done. 

We  went  to  see  the  piece  for  a  second  time,  for 
I  had  a  friend  staying  with  me  who  did  not  often 
go  to  a  play.  I  remember  when  Bob  Gasset  was 
shot,  and  fell  backwards  through  a  door  in  a  loft,  my 
friend  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  said, 
"  Oh  !  it's  dreadful  !  I  can't  bear  it  !  I  can't  bear  it !  " 
— and  it  certainly  looked  a  very  nasty  fall. 

It  was  that  night,  as  we  were  coming  out,  that 
my  father  introduced  me  to  W.  S.  Gilbert.  We  were 
standing  on  the  pavement  near  the  stage  door,  and 
as  he  and  my  father  talked  I  looked  well  at  the 
author  of  the  Bab  Ballads.  He  was  not,  I  decided, 
like  the  pictures  of  his  "  Discontented  Sugar  Broker," 
but  more  like  a  cavalry  man  than  a  writer  of  ballads  ; 
and  here  I  took  to  quoting  to  myself  one  of  his 
poems  : 

A  bachelor  of  circa  two-and-thirty, 

Tall,  gentlemanly,  but  extremely  plain  ; 
And  when  you're  intimate,  you'll  call  him  "Bertie"; 


138  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

I  decided  he  was  about  two-und-thirty,  but  decidedly 
not  plain  ;  and   then  I   went  on  quoting  another   Bab 

Ballad  : 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on, 
Through  pathless  realms  of  space 

Roll  on. 
What  though  I'm  m  a  sorry  case  ? 
What  though  I  cannot  meet  my  bills  ? 
What  though  I  suffer  toothache's  ills  ? 
What  though  I  swallow  countless  pills  ? 
Never  you  mind  ! 
Roll  on! 

Mr,  Gilbert  looking  very  prosperous  ;  I  decided  he 
had  no  ills  nor  bills.  I  quoted  the  other  verse, 
for  these  verses  were  amongst  my  favourites,  and 
always  amused  me  immensely,  and  I  was  no  doubt  on 
the  broad  grin,  when  Mr.  Gilbert,  who  had  gone  up 
the  steps  to  the  stage  door,  turned  on  the  top  step 
and  looked  at  me.  Immediately  I  had  an  idea  that  he 
was  not  pleased  at  meeting  us,  and  wondered  why, 
and  was  sorry,  for  I  had  had  a  great  desire  to  see  and 
like  the  author  of  the  Bab  Ballads. 

We  had  been  waiting  for  "  Bob  Gasset,"  and  now  he 
came,  but  looking  so  different  I  could  scarcely  believe 
he  was  the  same  man.  Mr.  Irving  was  then  under 
thirty,  had  a  pale,  serious,  intellectual  face,  and  long, 
rather  wavy,  black  hair,  and  was  as  different  from  his 
make-up  as  Bob  Gasset  as  can  well  be  imagined.  We 
all  got  into  a  cab  and  drove  home,  Irving  coming  in  to 
supper.  My  father  talked  about  the  play,  and  said 
how  much  he  liked  it  ;   but  the  actor  talked  very  little  ; 


Irving's  Absence  of  Mind  139 

he  gave  me  the  idea  of  being  melancholy,  1  thought 
he  was  tired.  I  did  not  know  then  that  silence  and 
seeming  lassitude  were  habitual  to  him  ;  but  so  it  was, 
for,  though  I  saw  him  often  for  four  or  five  years,  I 
do  not  think  I  ever  saw  him  cheerful,  let  alone 
hilarious.  His  face,  figure,  voice,  proclaimed  the 
tragedian — and  yet  how  well  he  can  play  comedy 
every  one  knows  who  has  seen  him  as  "  Jingle." 

That  night  he  quite  annoyed  me,  for  when  we  came 
into  the  dining-room  he  suddenly  put  up  his  eye- 
glasses, and,  after  a  careful  scrutiny  of  my  face,  said, 
more  to  himself  than  to  my  father  and  mother  : 

"Very  pretty — extraordinary  likeness  to  Marie 
Antoinette," 

I  became  crimson  ;  but  Irving  was  not  in  the  least 
perturbed.  I  might  have  been  a  picture,  from  the  cool 
way  in  which  he  looked  at  me,  and  I  have  never  been 
able  to  determine  whether  he  knew  he  spoke  aloud. 

The  next  time  I  saw  him  off  the  stage  was  one 
Sunday  morning  in  Drury  Lane.  The  Philosopher 
was  at  King's  College  at  that  time,  and  on  Sunday 
used  to  attend  the  service  at  the  college  chapel.  The 
rest  of  the  family  went  to  St.  George's,  Bloomsbury, 
where  we  had  a  pew,  or  to  Bloomsbury  Chapel,  where 
the  Rev.  J.  M.  Bellew  officiated  ;  we  all  admired  Mr. 
Bellew's  delivery,  but  I  was  very  willing  to  go  now 
and  then  to  King's  College  Chapel  with  my  brother, 
who,  when  he  was  in  a  particularly  amiable  frame  of 
mind,  did  not  object  to  taking  me. 


HO  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

Our  way  was  down  Drury  Lane  and  Long  Acre, 
into  the  Strand.  Drury  Lane,  though  a  busy  and 
lively  place  on  any  day  in  the  week,  was  on  a  Sunday 
morning  a  quiet,  almost  deserted  street.  Between  ten 
and  eleven  o'clock  the  hard-working  inhabitants  are 
sound  asleep,  or  only  just  becoming  conscious  that 
they  are  still  inhabitants  of  this  wicked  world,  and  that 
they  have  a  terrible  headache  from  the  orgie  that  they 
attended  the  night  before.  Except  for  a  few  dogs 
and  cats,  or  a  half-sleepy  man  or  woman  standing  at 
a  window  or  door,  the  Philosopher  and  I  generally 
had  the  street  to  ourselves,  and  when  we  came  to 
the  middle  of  the  lane  the  Philosopher  invariably 
said  : 

"Now  just  you  keep  your  eyes  open  :  I've  some- 
thing to  show  you." 

He  always  gave  me  plenty  of  time  to  open  my  eyes, 
which  was  unnecessary,  as  they  were  naturally  observant ; 
but  I  did  as  I  was  told,  and  waited  with  what  patience 
I  could.  As  we  neared  the  end  of  Drury  Lane  he 
stopped,  and  pointing  up  a  small  court  said  : 

"  There  !  that's  the  house  where  the  Plague  broke 
out — you  know,  the  Great  Plague  in  1664." 

Now  this  was  very  interesting  when  one  heard  it 
once  or  twice,  but  when  it  came  to  every  time  we 
went  that  way  it  grew  not  only  monotonous,  but 
irritating.  I  put  up  with  it  like  a  good  sister  should 
for  a  long  time,  but  even  the  patience  of  a  long- 
suffering  sister  gets  exhausted,  though  brothers  never 


A  Necessary  Lesson  141 

think  it  should — for  in  their  eyes  sisters  are  of  no 
account,  they  seldom  think  of  them  at  all.  After 
about  twenty  times  my  patience  was  worn  out — besides, 
I  felt  it  was  time  to  put  a  stop  to  the  repetition, 
that  it  was  not  good  to  allow  the  Philosopher  to  be 
so  forgetful.  If  he  behaved  like  this  other  people 
would  think  it  very  odd,  for  he  was  not  an  old 
man  losing  his  memory.  I  thought  it  over  and  hit 
upon  a  plan,  and,  though  I  dreaded  the  Philosopher's 
anger,  I  carried  it  out.  On  this  particular  Sunday, 
with  my  heart  beating  wildly,  I  entered  Drury  Lane, 
and  when  we  were  halfway  down  it  I  said  to  the 
Philosopher  : 

"  Don't  go  off  into  a  dream,  because  there  is  some- 
thing I   want  to  show  you." 

"  Go  off  into  a  dream  !  What  do  you  mean  ^ — I 
never  go  off  into  dreams.  But  what  is  it  you  want 
to  show  me  ? — something  silly,   I   know." 

"  You'll  see,"  I  said.      "  Don't  be  so  impatient." 

How  I  hoped  I  should  not  make  a  mistake  in  the 
court  !  But  no,  I  soon  espied  the  bulging  old  houses, 
and  coming  to  a  dead  stop  I  pointed  down  the  opening 
and  said  : 

"  There  !  that's  the  house  where  the  Plague  broke 
out — you   know,   the " 

But  the  Philosopher  let  me  get  no  farther  ;  he 
broke  out  scornfully  and  wrathfully  : 

"  Just  as  if  I  didn't  know  that,  you  stupid  !  Why, 
I've  shown  it  you  many  times." 


142  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  Yes,"  I  retorted,  "  so  many  times  that  1  thought 
now   I   would   show  it  you." 

"  You  had  him  there,"  said  a  quiet  but  unmistak- 
able voice,  and  looking  up  I  saw  Irving,  who,  smiling, 
raised  his  hat  as  he  passed  on. 

The  Philosopher,  after  one  surprised  look,  gave  a 
disgusted  laugh,  and  we  walked  on  in  silence  ;  till 
I   said,   by  way  of  saying  something  : 

"  Poor  Mr.  Irving  must  have  hurt  himself  the 
other  night  when  he  fell  through  that  trap.  Did 
you  see  how  his  temple  was  plastered  up  .^  " 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  the  Philosopher,  "  do  you  suppose 
he  thinks  anything  of  that  }  No  man  would — a  mere 
scratch.^     Men  are  not  like  girls^  let  me  tell  you," 

I  here  remarked  that  Mr.  Irving  might  have  broken 
his  neck,  and  that  I  did  not  like  to  see  him  do  that 
fall.  This  remark  gave  the  Philosopher  an  oppor- 
tunity, of  which  he  quickly  availed  himself,  to  describe 
to  me  how  every  arrangement  is  made  by  placing 
mattresses,  etc.,  to  break  an  actor's  fall,  and  that 
it  was  only  very  occasionally  that  any  one  was  hurt. 
I  listened  with  due  meekness,  and  we  arrived  at  the 
church  the  best  of  friends.  But  the  lesson  was  not 
lost,  for  I  never  heard  any  more  of  the  house  where 
the  Plague  broke  out. 

*  Mr.  Irving  had  had  a  very  nasty  fall  indeed,  we  heard  afterwards. 
By  some  oversight  the  mattresses  had  been  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  Xll 

THE  DEATH  OF  NELLIE  MOORE — IRVING,  AND  MENDELSSOHN'S  "SONGS 
WITHOUT  WORDS  " — MISGIVINGS  ABOUT  "  THE  BELLS  "—THE  FIRST 
NIGHT   OF   "  THE   BELLS." 

I  HAVE  spoken  of  my  friend  Bessie  W ,  who 
lived  in  the  old  house  in  Dean  Street,  Soho  ; 
though  we  were  no  longer  schoolfellows,  we  were 
still  friends,  and  I  used  often  to  go  and  see  her. 
Dean  Street  is  not  far  from  Great  Russell  Street,  and 
though  I  seldom,  if  ever,  went  out  without  my 
governess  accompanying  me,  I  was  allowed  to  go 
there  by  myself,  and  it  so  happened  that  I  met 
Mr.  Irving  three  times  in  Soho  Square.  I  used  to 
go  to  tea  with  Bessie  between  four  and  five  o'clock, 
and  Mr.  Irving  used  to  call  at  a  house  in  the  Square 
where  Miss  Nellie  Moore  lodged,  the  charming  actress 
who  played  the  part  of  one  of  the  Roses,  in  The 
Two  Roses,  and  whose  hair  was  so  fair  and  silky. 

The  first  time  Mr.  Irving  and  I  met  we  only 
nodded  and  smiled,  but  the  next  time  we  stopped 
and  spoke,  and  I  told  Mr.  Irving  that  I  was  going 
to  tea  with  a  friend,  and  he  told  me  that  he  had 
been  to  inquire  after  Miss  Moore,  who  was  very 
ill    indeed,    and    who    was    all    alone    in    London,   her 

143 


144  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

mother  being  with  Nellie  Moore's  younger  sister 
in  America. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  "   I   asked. 

"  Scarlet  fever,"  said  Mr.  Irving.  1  felt  startled 
and  worried,  but  made  no  remark.  "  I  am  afraid 
she  won't  get  well,"   he  said. 

He  looked  exceedingly  melancholy  and  anxious, 
and  I  felt  very  sympathetic,  but  also  very  uncomfort- 
able ;  I  wanted  to  say  something  kind  and  appropriate, 
but  did  not  know  how.  I  was  dreadfully  sorry 
for  Nellie  Moore,  for  I  had  quite  fallen  in  love 
with  her  in  The  Two  Roses.  I  said  at  last  how 
sorry  I  was,  and  then  I  told  him  how  ill  a  boy 
cousin  of  mine  had  been,  and  how  his  mother  nursed 
him  for  weeks,  and  no  one  was  allowed  to  go  near 
my  aunt  or  him.  Irving  listened  patiently,  and  then 
he  said,    "  So  he  got  well  after  all  }  " 

"  Oh  yes,  and  the  doctor  says  he's  all  the  better 
for  having  had  the  fever." 

Irving  smiled  rather  sadly. 

"  Let  us  hope  Miss  Moore  will  recover — you 
will  remember  her  in  your  prayers  "  ;  then  he  paused. 
"  It  is  dreadful  to  think  she  is  all  alone,"  he  said, 
more  to  himself  than  to  me. 

"  When  will  her  mother  come  ^  "  I  asked,  and 
he  said  she  was  on  her  way  home,  but  he  feared 
she  would  be  too  late. 

It  was  about  two  days  after  this  that  we  again  met, 
but   it   was  in   the  morning — I  was   taking  a   note  to 


A  Bunch  of  Violets  145 

Mr.   W from   my   father.     I  can   remember  the 

exact  spot  where  Mr.  Irving  and  I  met.  I  saw  him 
as  he  was  coming  across  from  the  house  in  the 
square,  and  I  waited  for  him,  standing  on  the  edge 
of  the  curb  at  the  corner  of  the  Httle  street  that 
leads  out  of  Oxford  Street  into  Soho  Square.  He 
came  slowly  across  the  road,  his  hands  full  of  beautiful 
Parma  violets.  I  looked  from  him  to  the  house — the 
blinds  were  down.  My  heart  gave  great  throbs. 
"  My  prayers  have  not  been  heard "  was  my  first 
thought ;  then  I  remembered  the  sunny  morning,  and  I 
told  myself  it  was  because  of  the  sun  the  blinds  were 
down  :    pretty  Nellie  Moore  could  not  be  dead. 

"  Well }  "   I  said,  hardly  able  to  speak. 

Mr.  Irving  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  me,  then 
he  held  out  the  violets. 

"  You  take  them,"  he  said,  "  she  will  never  want 
any  more." 

I  took  the  flowers  and  stood  quite  silent.  I  suppose 
I  turned  very  white,  for  he  took  one  of  my  hands 
and  held  it,  stroking  it  with  his  other  hand;  at  last 
I  spoke. 

"  Mrs.  Moore  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  comes  to-night." 

*'  And  she  doesn't  know — oh,  how  dreadful  !  And 
she  was  so  young  and  pretty  !  " 

"  Don't  be  so  sorry,  little  friend  :  it's  not  always  a 
misfortune  to  die  young,"  said  Irving,  with  a  sad 
smile,  and  then  we  parted. 

10 


146  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

I  went  on  my  way,  passing  the  house  with  averted 
head    and    struggHng    with   my   tears.      I  gave  all  the 

violets  to  Mrs.   W ,  but  I   never  told  her  where 

they  came  from.  I  could  not  have  taken  them  home — 
I  could  not  have  endured  the  sight  of  them  ;  and  I 
tried  to  forget  poor  Nellie  Moore,  but  it  was  weeks 
before  I  could  do  so,  and  to  this  day  I  never  go 
into  Soho  Square  without  thinking  of  her  and  her 
early  death. 

Living  so  near,  Irving  was  often  in  our  house, 
coming  in  and  out  as  he  liked.  One  day  I  had 
been  practising,  and  was  coming  out  of  the  room 
with  unnecessary  energy,  when  I  nearly  ran  against 
the  actor  in  the  doorway.  I  stepped  back  into  the 
room, 

"  So  it  was  you  playing  Mendelssohn  so  nicely," 
he  said  as  I  shook  hands.  "  Just  come  back  and 
play  me  No.    i." 

"  I  can  «o/,"  I  began,  but  Irving  had  me  by  the 
sleeve,  and  I  found  myself  at  the  piano,  the  piece 
before  me. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  No.  i,"  said  Irving,  sinking 
into  a  chair  close  to  the  piano,  but  rather  behind 
me. 

We  were  taught  to  do  as  we  were  told  and  not 
make  a  fuss,  so  in  spite  of  nervous  fears  I  began 
to  play.  I  was  sure  it  would  be  an  ignominious 
failure,  but  I  reached  the  double  bar  quite  creditably  ; 
then    I    glanced    at    my    companion.     He  was  sitting 


Songs  without  Words  i47 

as  I  have  often  seen  him  on  the  stage,  sunk  down 
In  the  chair,  his  chin  upon  his  breast,  his  feet 
stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  his  arms  lying  along 
the  arms  of  the  chair,  the  hands  limply  hangings 
I  thought  him  asleep,  and  congratulated  myself.  I 
went  on  with  No.  i,  and  became  so  interested  I  forgot 
Irving.  When  I  reached  the  end  I  commenced  it 
again,  and  played  it  all  through,  not  forgetting  to 
repeat  the  passages  as  marked.  Then  I  sat  a  moment 
turning  over  my  book.  When  I  tried  to  rise  I 
could  not  ;  my  frock  was  fixed  to  the  seat  ;  I  found 
Irving's  hand  was  upon  it.  "  Go  on,"  said  a  solemn 
voice  ;  "  very  well  played — shows  sympathy  and 
feehng."  Next  I  played  No.  30,  and  was  very  glad 
when  my  father  entered  and  took  Irving  to  the 
study. 

Long  before  The  Bells  was  put  upon  the  stage 
we  heard  about  it,  and  were  all  most  anxious  for 
its  success.  On  the  first  night  (1871)  my  father 
went  with  Irving.  He  came  to  ask  him  a  day  or 
so  before  ;  and  as  I  was  coming  downstairs  from 
the  second  floor  I  saw  the  actor  emerging  from  the 
study.  Neither  he  nor  my  father  saw  me,  but  I  heard 
the  latter  say : 

"  Of  course  I  will  come — always  intended  to.  It's 
sure  to  be  a  success  ;  don't  worrit  yourself." 

"  Very  kind  of  you  to  say  so.  No,  don't  come 
down." 

Irving   shut   the    door    quickly,    and    turned  to  go 


148  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

down  the  three  steps  to  the  next  landing.  As  he 
turned  again  I  saw  his  face  ;  it  was  very  melancholy  ; 
then  I  put  my  head  over  the  balusters  and  said  : 

"  Well  !  so  you  are  to  act  in  The  Bells  ;  are  you 
not  glad  ?  " 

"  It  may  not  be  a  success,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh. 

"Oh  yes  it  will,"  I  replied.  "You  know  you  are  a 
rattling  good  actor  ;  my  father  says  so.  Now  you 
will  be  a  great  success^  and  I  shall  be  the  first  to 
congratulate  you." 

He  looked  up  and  almost  laughed. 

"  Thank  you  !  I  shall  take  your  words  as  a  good 
omen,"  he  replied,  shaking  hands  between  the  balusters. 
Then  he  ran  downstairs,  still  smiling.  As  to  me,  1 
went  to  the  top  of  the  long  flight,  and,  in  spite  of 
housemaid  and  open   door,   I   called  out : 

"  It  will  be  a  great  success  ;  I  know  it  will.  Tou 
see  if  I  am  not  rightT 

Irving  waved  his  hand  to  me. 

My  father,  opening  his  door,  asked  :  "  Is  that  Mr. 
Irving  you  are  shouting  at  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  have  put  on  The  Bells,  and  he  doesn't 
seem  at  all  glad.  I  can't  think  why,  when  it's  just 
what  he  wanted." 

"Ah,"  said  my  father,  "I  can  understand;  people 
are  often  nervous  when  they  attain  their  desire.  I 
like  him  all   the  better,"   he  added  to  himself. 

"  Oh  well,"  I  replied,  "  I  told  him  he  was  a  rattling 
good   actor,   and  that  you  said  so," 


The  First  Night  of  *' The  Bells  ^'         i49 

"  No  doubt  that  cheered  him,"  laughed  my  father. 

On  the  all-important  night  Mrs.  Irving  came  and 
accompanied  my  mother  and  father  to  the  theatre. 
I  and  a  girl  cousin  who  was  staying  with  us  sat 
up  till  their  return,  which  was  very  late.  But  1  could 
not  have  gone  to  bed — I  was  so  anxious  to  know 
how  the  play  went  off,  and  to  see  and  congratulate 
Mr,  Irving.  I  hoped  he  would  be  in  great  spirits, 
but,  as  I  have  said  before,  I  never  saw  Mr.  Irving 
hilarious,  and  do  not  think  he  could  be.  Directly 
I  saw  his  face  I  felt  a  dreadful  sense  of  disappointment, 
he  was  so  pale  and  gloomy-looking  ;  we  shook  hands 
in  silence,  and  I  introduced  my  cousin.  I  was  afraid 
to  speak.  Was  this  play,  that  we  had  all  thought  so 
much  of,  that  we  had  been  looking  forward  to  for 
weeks — was  it  a  failure  after  all } 

"  We  are  very  late — how  tired  you  look !  You 
should  not  have  waited  up  for  us,"  said  Irving. 

Before  I  could  answer  my  father  came  in ;  he  had 
been  down  to  the  cellar  and  had  two  bottles  of 
champagne  in  his  hands.  His  face  was  beaming,  and 
he  was  brimming  with  enthusiasm  and  elation  at 
Irving's  fine  acting  and  the  success  of  the  play. 

"  Begin  your  congratulations,  Lollie,"  he  said,  "  it 
was  a  grand  success — quite  a  hit." 

"  I  am  so  glad.  I  knew  it  would  be,"  I  replied  as  I 
shook  the  actor's  hand  again.  Irving  admitted  that  I 
was  a  true  prophetess,  and  then,  my  mother  and  Mrs. 
Irving  coming  in,  we  sat  down  to  supper. 


150  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

My  father  did  most  of  the  talking  ;  he  praised  the 
piece  and  the  scenery  ;  Mr.  Irving  asked  his  opinion 
of  this,  that,  and  the  other  ;  every  little  detail  was 
gone  into,  and  my  mother  spoke  about  the  snow  on 
"  Matthias's"  boots,  which  I  have  mentioned  in  a  former 
chapter.  They  all  three  talked  animatedly,  and  I  and 
my  cousin  were  very  much  interested,  though  Mrs. 
Irving  seemed  to  think  we  might  be  bored  ;  I  fancy  she 
was  herself,  for  she  was  very  quiet. 

My  father  made  a  short  speech,  and  we  drank 
further  success  and  a  long  run  to  The  Bells  ;  my 
father,  in  his  enthusiastic  way,  said  we  must  drink  the 
toast  standing,  which  we  did,  and  I  rather  think  it 
was  drunk  with  honours,  but  this  I  do  not  remember  ; 
but  I  can  very  clearly  recall  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Irving's 
faces.  She  laughed,  and  rather  deprecated  "  the  fuss," 
as  she  called  it  ;  it  struck  me  that  she  thought  it 
all  nonsense,  and  that  my  father's  enthusiasm  was 
ridiculous  ;  but  Irving's  face  was  a  study,  he  looked 
so  very  affectionately  at  his  host,  as  if  he  admired  and 
loved  him — and  I  have  seen  that  same  expression  on 
the  faces  of  several  men  when  they  have  been  in  my 
father's  company. 

After  supper  Mrs.  Irving  said  it  was  late,  and  they 
must  go,  but  her  husband  looked  at  her  and  said, 
"  Oh,  not  yet,  my  dear,"  and  my  father  declared  it 
was  a  special  occasion,  and  they  must  have  a  cigar. 
With  charming  insistence  he  induced  Mrs.  Irving 
to  take  a  comfortable  chair.     Then  Irving,  sitting  in  an 


An  Interrupted  Enjoyment  151 

armchair,  and,  leaning  back,  looking  very  pleased  and 
happy,  began  to  talk  about  an  actor's  life.  It  would 
have  been  very  interesting  to  hear  his  ideas,  his  hopes, 
and  ambitions  ;  but  as  it  was  between  one  and  two 
in  the  morning  my  cousin  and  I  quietly  rose  and 
went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  REV.  J.  M.  BELLEW — REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  CHURCH — BELLEW  AND 
THE  FURNITURE — BELLEW  AS  A  PUBLIC  READER — A  READING  OF 
"ROMEO  AND  JULIET" — BELLEW  LEAVES  THE  CHURCH. 

I  MENTIONED  in  a  former  chapter  our  attending 
Bedford  Chapel,  where  the  Rev.  J.  M.  Bellew 
was  then  preaching.  The  chapel  has  no  parish  attached 
to  it,  and  we  had  sittings  in  St.  George's,  Bloomsbury  ; 
but  we  were  all  very  fond  of  going  to  hear  Mr. 
Bellew,  his  sermons  were  good  and  his  delivery  very 
fine  indeed. 

From  almost  my  earHest  years  I  had  been  used  to 
hearing  him,  for  he  was  at  one  time  at  St.  Mark's, 
Hamilton  Terrace,  where  Canon  Duckworth,  another 
of  my  father's  friends,  has  been  for  many  years.  I 
used  to  stay  with  an  uncle  in  Maida  Vale,  and  was 
taken  by  a  cousin,  who  was  a  member  of  Mr.  Bellew's 
church,  to  hear  the  famous  preacher,  and  a  great 
impression  he  made  upon  me. 

It  was  some  years  after,  when  he  was  at  the  height 
of  his  popularity,  that  he  became  incumbent  of  Bedford 
Chapel,  and  there  the  rank  and  fashion  of  the  London 
season  used  to  come  to  hear  him,  and  were  often 
turned  away  from  the  doors  for  lack  of  room.     Those 


Reflections  on  the  Church  153 

who  can  recall  the  service  will  remember  that  it  was 
not  ritualistic.  There  were  no  flowers,  there  was  no 
incense,  but  the  service  was  conducted  with  reverence 
and  in  order.  The  singing  was  very  good,  though 
one  would  have  liked  a  surpliced  choir,  but  to  dress  the 
choir  in  surplices  was  not  so  general  then  as  now. 
What  was  most  excellent  was  the  good  reading  and 
preaching,  which  was  as  lacking  in  those  days  in  our 
churches  as  it  is  in  these.  I  think  the  indifferent  way 
many  of  our  clergy  read  and  speak  is  a  scandal  to 
the  Church  of  England.  I  know  that  in  some  of  the 
churches  they  are  now  intoning  the  service — it  is 
thought  in  order  to  hide  their  indifferent  elocution  ; 
but  though  intoning  is  but  a  makeshift,  and  is  generally 
very  indifferently,  not  to  say  badly,  done,  we  have 
still  the  sermon,  and  that  cannot  be  intoned — though 
some  do  their  best  by  adopting  a  sing-song  style, 
while  others  whisper  and  then  shout.  Each  of  these 
styles  is  very  difficult  to  follow  ;  and  when  it  is,  as 
one  so  often  hears,  accompanied  by  a  Scotch,  Irish,  or 
provincial  dialect,  and  grotesque  actions,  it  is  too 
much  to  expect  a  congregation  to  endure — and 
who  can  wonder  that  the  church  empties  .''  Sermons 
too  should  be  better,  and  come  more  closely  home  to 
mankind's  business  and  family  troubles,  instead  of 
being  mere  rhapsodies,  or  strings  of  quotations, 
without  a  beginning,  middle,  or  end  that  one  can 
apply;  but  there  is  a  slight  improvement  in  this 
respectj  for  some  preachers  do  meet  the  questions  of 


154  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

the  day  more  now  than  they  used.     What  they  want 

is  to  learn  elocution,  so  as  to   speak   and   read  clearly 

and    with  eloquence,    instead  of  gabbling,    mumbling, 

shouting,  whispering,  or  reading  in  an  apathetic  manner, 

which  is  the  fashion  of  the  majority. 

The   loss   of  the   power  of  the   pulpit   is  shown  in 

the    spread    of    ritualism    and    of   infidelity.       If  our 

clergy    had    preached    as    Baxter  wrote    of    his    own 

preaching  : 

I  preach  as  ne'er  to  preach  again, 
A  dying  man  to  dying  men, 

there  would  not  be  so  many  of  either  the  clergy  or 
the  laity  who  have  gone  in  for  chasubles,  birettas, 
crucifers,  processions,  genuflexions,  elevations  of  the 
bread  and  wine,  and  the  slurring  of  God's  Word  by 
intoning  it. 

Could  any  one  imagine  Wesley,  Melville,  Bunyan, 
or  Spurgeon,  or  any  other  born  orator,  resorting  to 
different  coloured  dresses — dark  colours  on  the  fast  days 
and  rose  colour  on  feast  days  ?  Can  any  one  imagine 
St.  Peter  or  St.  Paul  sitting  still  and  allowing  "  son 
Timothy "  to  figure  with  his  back  to  an  audience, 
before  the  altar,  kneeling,  rising,  bowing,  and  kissing 
portions  of  his  dress,  while  his  acolytes  collect  money 
in  scarlet  bags  ?  There  is  not  one  student — I  mean 
honest,  historical  student — of  the  Gospels  and  Epistles 
who  could  suppose  such  a  thing  possible.  People 
may  well  ask.  What  are  our  Bishops  about,  to  allow 
it.''     Why  does  not  the  Church  of  England  treat  its 


The  Rev.  J.  M.  Bellew  155 

clergy  better  ?  Why  are  there  so  many  livings  below 
j^200  a  year  ?  Surely  a  servant  of  the  Church  is 
worthy  of  his  hire,  and  should  at  least  be  secured 
from  penury,  or  adding  to  his  income  by  novel-writing, 
public  reading,  etc.,  which  many  are  absolutely  obliged 
to  turn  to — and  that  brings  me  back  to  the  subject 
of  this  sketch. 

I  do  not  mean  to  insinuate  that  Mr.  Bellew  was 
obliged  to  become  a  public  speaker,  though  he  always 
said  he  was.  Being  eloquent,  he  was  naturally 
ambitious,  and  most  of  the  clergy  are  badly  paid.  I 
do  not  know  anything  of  Mr.  Bellew's  private  life, 
nor  whether  the  Church  treated  him  well  or  ill. 
St.  Mark's,  one  would  think,  must  be  a  good  living  ; 
but  Bedford  Chapel  had  no  parish — it  seemed  to  be 
only  a  favourite  church  for  popular  preachers  ;  there 
was  no  position  attached  to  it.  Later,  Christopherson, 
and  many  others  whose  names  I  have  forgotten, 
preached  there  ;  but  though  many  preached  better 
sermons,  no  one  performed  the  service  so  impressively 
as  Mr.  Bellew.  He  neither  shouted  nor  intoned,  but 
he  made  every  word  tell.  He  read  the  lessons  most 
beautifully,  as  they  should  be  read,  but  as  one  very, 
very  seldom  hears  them.  His  delivery  of  the  Com- 
mandments was  so  forcible,  his  manner  so  grandly 
impressive,  that  those  who  heard  him  once  could  never 
forget  it.  He  was  a  very  handsome  man,  and 
looked  most  imposing  in  his  surplice,  which  was 
always    neat    and    untumbled    and    put    on    with    the 


156  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

greatest  exactness,  as  it  should  be  ;  his  abundant  white 
hair  added  picturesqueness  to  his  appearance,  especially 
as  he  had  dark  eyes  and  well-defined  eyebrows. 

I  had  never  seen  a  French  abbe^  but  I  thought 
he  must  be  like  one  in  his  defiant,  gallant  way  ;  he 
also  made  me  think  of  "  Yorick."  A  fine  engraving 
of  "  Yorick "  and  the  grisette  used  to  hang  in  my 
bedroom  ;  and  though  I  had  not  then  read  Sterne, 
I  thought  "  Yorick "  not  unlike  Mr.  Bellew  ;  the 
reason  may  have  been  that  "  Yorick's  "  white  wig 
was  not  unlike  Mr.  Bellew's  hair,  and  I  had  heard 
my  father  say  that  Mr.  Bellew  wore  knee  breeches 
and  silk  stockings  under  his  surplice.  But  in  later 
years  when  I  read  The  Sentimental  Journey  I  still 
thought  there  was  some  likeness  between  the  great 
Sterne  and  his  countryman,  if  only  in  their  disregard 
of  conventionalities  and  their  love  of  an  easy  life. 
Their  Irish  birth  no  doubt  caused  them  to  be  un- 
conventional ;  they  certainly  had  the  courage  of  their 
opinions,  and  were  not  like  the  common  run  of 
humanity,  and  in  consequence  they  were  both  well 
criticised. 

Much  has  been  written  against  Sterne  and  spoken 
against  Bellew,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  we  have 
had,  and  have  still,  many  worse  men  in  the  Church 
than  either,  and  few  more  clever  in  their  different  ways. 
Sterne  was  a  genius,  and  Bellew  one  of  the  most 
eloquent  men  that  ever  lived.  After  all,  the  most 
heinous   fault   of  the  latter  seems   to   have  been    that 


The  Rev.  J.  M.  Bellew  157 

"  he  was  seen  in  a  theatre  at  twelve  o'clock  on  Saturday- 
night,  and  administering  the  sacrament  on  the  follow- 
ing Sunday  morning."  I  do  not  know  how  often  this 
occurred,  but  if  it  happened  once^  people  would  have 
talked  as  if  it  were  of  weekly  occurrence.  It  was  not 
seemly  in  a  clergyman,  but  it  was  not  a  crime,  and 
he  was  at  his  post  and  doing  his  duty  next  day.  In 
these  days  it  would  not  have  been  made  so  much  of ; 
for  after  all  the  theatre  is  the  child  of  the  Church, 
and  should  be  as  great  a  power  for  good  if  properly- 
conducted.  It  seems  a  great  pity  that  the  Pulpit, 
the  Stage,  and  the  Press  do  not  act  in  more  accord. 

Bellew's  other  fault,  people  said,  was  vanity.  But 
does  there  live  a  man  who  is  not  vain  }  Mr.  Bellew 
had  more  excuse  than  most,  for  he  was  handsome, 
and  he  was  very  eloquent ;  besides,  a  number  of 
women  ran  after  him,  and  that  always  turns  a  man's 
head.  But  he  was  not  so  vain  of  his  own  sermons 
that  he  could  not  deliver  other  people's,  and  in  this 
one  wishes  others  would  copy  him.  He  gave  a  long 
course  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  at  my  father's  suggestion 
chose  "  The  Marriage  Ring."  The  sermons  were  most 
beautifully  delivered  and  very  popular. 

If  Mr.  Bellew  looked  well  in  the  pulpit,  he  did 
not  look  so  well  walking,  or  in  a  room  ;  for  the 
surplice  hid  the  stoutness  of  his  body  and  the  shortness 
of  his  legs,  which  gave  him  an  unwieldy  appearance, 
which  I  am  sure  he  knew  and  was  not  proud  of.  He 
was,  I   think,   sensitive  on    the  point,  and  it  was  this 


158  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

sensitiveness  I  hurt,  quite  unintentionally.  He  came 
into  the  drawing-room  in  Great  Russell  Street  one  day, 
and  was  about  to  sit  down  in  a  very  delicate  bentwood 
chair,  when  I,  dragging  forward  a  substantial  armchair, 
a  perfect  throne,  said  : 

"  Won't  you  take  this,  Mr.  Bellew  ?  " 

"  No  thank  you,  the  one  I  have  will  do,"  he  said. 

"  But  I  am  sure  you  will  like  this  chair  better  ;  that 
is  so  very  fragile,"  I  persisted. 

"  I  am  not  an  elephant,  my  dear  girl,"  he  retorted 
in  an  offended  tone,  and  added,  "  Are  you  afraid 
I  shall  break  the  furniture.^" 

Then  down  he  sat,  the  chair  giving  an  ominous 
crack.  I  returned  to  my  seat,  feeling  snubbed.  On 
my  father's  entrance  Bellew  turned  round  quickly, 
and  crack  went  the  chair. 

"  Hallo  !  "  said  my  father,  "  something  seems  to 
be  giving  way  here." 

"  I  beheve  it  is  breaking  after  all,"  replied  the 
clergyman,  and  on  examination  he  proved  to  be  right. 
I  almost  said  "  I  told  you  so,"  but  fortunately  I 
remembered  my  manners  in  time. 

Mr.  Bellew's  public  readings  were  very  popular, 
and  he  was  anxious  to  read  one  of  my  father's  poems  ; 
he  had,  he  said,  been  studying  Francis  Spira  *  with 
that  view — "  but  the  piece  John  Fairfax,  which  is 
very  dramatic,  I  could  not  read  for  fear  of  having 
the   house  about   my  ears  worse  than   Vining    did   at 

*  A  book  of  poems  by  my  father. 


A  Letter  from  Bellew  159 

the  Princess's  the  other  evening."  I  wondered  what 
Mr.  Vining  had  done  to  have  such  a  catastrophe  occur. 
Mr.  Bellew  then  complained  of  the  pieces  he  had 
made  popular  being  pirated  by  other  people,  and  he 
mentioned  some  well-known  names  of  entertainers 
(now  dead),  who  came  and  sat  listening,  watching  his 
treatment,  and  then  the  pieces  he  had  been  reading 
were  taken  by  them.  On  this  account  he  preferred 
pieces  that  had  not  been  published,  and  it  was  arranged 
that  my  father  should  write  him  something  and  let 
him  have  it  in  MS. 

My  father  evidently  wrote  to  him  and  gave  him  a 
choice  of  subjects,  for  Mr.  Bellew  writes  as  follows  : 

"  Marie  Antoinette  is  the  subject.  I  think  if  it  were 
written  like  Aytoun's  Montrose,  or  Byron's  Lara, 
it  could  be  made  most  telling.  Ugolino  or  Raleigh 
are  most  excellent  ;  but  they  could  not  touch  the 
Queen.  There  is  so  much  pathos,  tragedy,  and  thrilling 
incident  in  her  story  :  her  watching  through  the  chink 
for  the  Dauphin  ;  her  looking  up  to  the  window  for 
the  priest's  blessing  at  the  appointed  spot  as  she  went 
to  execution  ;  her  hair  changing  to  white  in  one 
night.     What  a  field  there  is  for  a  poet's  pen  !  " 

My  father  took  a  much  more  simple  subject  than 
Marie  Antoinette.  At  this  very  time  he  read  in  the 
papers  an  account  of  a  platelayer  on 

The  great  north  line,  a  serpent  with  two  heads, 
Each  in  a  noisy  city  wrapped  in  smoke, 


i6o  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

to  quote  the  first  lines  of  the  poem  ;  this  platelayer 
rushed  forward  to  save  a  little  child,  who,  seeing  its 
father  on  the  other  side,  attempted  to  cross  in  front  of 
the  train  ;  the  child  was  saved,  the  man  killed. 

My  father  took  this  homely  subject,  thinking  it 
sufficiently  dramatic,  and  called  his  verses  A  Railway 
Incident,  Mr.  Bellew  was  charmed  with  it  and  read 
it  most  effectively  for  two  or  three  seasons  ;  it  was 
then  published  in   CasseWs   Magazine. 

1  once  went  with  my  father  to  hear  Mr.  Bellew 
read  this  poem,  and  we  went  in  the  interval  between 
the  first  and  second  part  of  the  entertainment  round  to 
his  room  at  the  back  of  the  hall.  I  was  very  much 
interested  and  amused  to  find  several  looking-glasses 
in  silver  frames  hung  upon  the  walls  at  studied  angles, 
also  hair  and  clothes  brushes  with  silver  backs,  and  a 
beautiful  hand-glass  in  mother-o'-pearl,  and  amongst 
other  things  a  hare's  foot. 

Mr.  Bellew  was  not  there.  My  father  raised  his 
eyebrows  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Looks  like  a  lady's  dressing-table." 

I  made  no  reply  ;  I  was  busy  trying,  by  tip-toeing, 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  myself  in  the  different  glasses,  for 
I  had  never  seen  so  m.any  placed  in  such  positions  ; 
but,  do  what  I  would,  I  could  only  catch  glimpses  of 
the  top,  back,  and  sides  of  my  hair  and  forehead,  but 
it  illustrated  to  me  what  the  glasses  were  for. 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  I  said,  "  that  Mr.  Bellew 
would  have  practised  at  home  ;  what  will  the  servants — 


Bellew  on  Encores  i6i 

attendants,  I  mean — think  of  him  ?     And  oh,  what  is 
that  for  ?  " 

I  pointed  to  the  hare's  foot.      My  father  frowned. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  in  quite  a  severe  tone. 

I  sat  down,  my  eyes  wandering  round  the  long 
shp  of  a  room,  that  looked  dull  and  almost  dirty  (it 
was  somewhere  in  the  suburbs)  with  its  oak-papered 
varnished  walls,  and  its  one  small,  common  looking- 
glass  and  jug  of  water  which  stood  on  the  table, 
part  of  which  had  been  covered  by  a  superfine 
white  embroidered  cloth,  on  which  lay  the  toilet 
paraphernalia.  The  smart  looking-glasses  that  were 
hung  on  the  dirty  wall,  and  the  glittering  glass  and 
silver  on  the  table,  only  made  the  place  seem  more 
dreary.  My  father  in  his  evening  dress  looked  quite 
out  of  place,  and,  though  I  did  not  wear  evening  dress 
at  that  time,  I  have  no  doubt  I  looked  equally  incon- 
gruous.    I  know  Mr.  Bellew  did. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  !  Didn't  the  Incident  go 
well  }  "  he  said  as  he  came  in,  and  standing  in  front  of 
a  glass  ran  his  hands  through  his  hair.  My  father 
agreed,  and  spoke  of  the  way  the  people  clapped. 

"  Oh,  they  always  do — but  I  never  repeat,  I  set  my 
face  against  encores ;  the  public  get  quite  enough  for 
their  money,  and  if  they  want  the  Incident  again,  as 
they  always  do,  they  can  come  to  the  next  reading." 

He  sat  down  at  the  table,  right  opposite  me,  as  I 
sat  with  my  back  against  a  wall  ;  then  he  glanced 
round   the  room. 

1 1 


1 62  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  hole  ?  "  he  said.  "  Like  a 
room  at  a  railway  station — not  so  good  as  some  ;  not 
even  a  decent  looking-glass,  so  "  (with  a  wave  of  his 
hand)  "  I  have  to  bring  all  these.  Oh  !  these  suburban 
halls,  how  well  I  know  them  !  Nothing  to  eat — if  1 
had  known  your  daughter  was  coming,  1  would  have 
ordered  some  cakes  or  sweetmeats,  but  I've  only 
these." 

He  leant  forward,  and  opening  a  silver  box,  like  a 
snuff-box,  held  it  out  to  me — it  was  full  of  voice 
jujubes.  I  took  one,  as  I  had  been  taught  it  was  rude 
to  refuse  ;  then  he  helped  himself,  shut  the  box,  and 
put  it  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  taking  two  brushes 
commenced  brushing  his  hair.  My  father  rose  to  go, 
but  Mr.   Bellew  would  not  hear  of  it. 

*'  You  must  have  a  glass  of  champagne  with  me.  I 
don't  usually  indulge  in  such  a  thing,  but  I  ordered 
it  especially,  just  to  drink  further  success  to  The 
Railway  Incident. 

Some  one  bringing  the  wine  at  that  moment,  we  all 
drank  success  ;  then  the  audience,  having  grown  tired 
of  the  pianist,  began  to  get  impatient — we  could  hear 
them  clapping  and  stamping  ;  so  we  left  Mr.  Bellew 
to  finish  his  toilet,  and  returned  to  our  places. 

Another  time  I  went  with  my  father  to  a  reading 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Mr.  Bellew  read  the  play,  and 
a  company  of  actors  and  actresses  acted  it  in  dumb- 
show.  Every  one  expected  it  would  be  a  fiasco,  but  it 
was  a  great  success — the    illusion    was    perfect.     The 


''Either  that  or  Nothing''  163 

stage  was  lighted  and  the  reader  was  down  below  in 
deep  shadow  ;  the  audience  heard  his  voice,  but  did 
not  notice  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  actors  were 
actually  speaking  ;  even  the  women's  voices  were  well 
managed.  All  were,  I  think,  astonished  at  the  success 
of  the  venture,  and  it  says  a  great  deal  for  the  reader 
and  the  actors  that  the  illusion  was  so  exact. 

After  nearly  twenty  years  in  the  Church  of  England, 
Mr.  Bellew  became  a  Roman  Catholic  ;  his  mother 
had  always  belonged  to  that  faith.  Soon  after  his 
perversion  my  father  and  he  met  in  the  British 
Museum  ;  and  on  my  father  expressing  sorrow  at  his 
having  left  the  Church,  Bellew  said  : 

"  It  was  either  that,  or  nothing,   Friswell." 
"  Then  you  may  be  sure  it  is  nothing,"  replied  my 
father,  as  he  left  him. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

INTRODUCED  TO  CHARLES  DICKENS — "  LIKE  LITTLE  NELL  " — THE  FARE- 
WELL DINNER  TO  DICKENS — ANTHONY  TROLLOPE — LORD  LYTTON  — 
A   CURIOUS    SCENE — INTRODUCED    TO   TENNYSON. 

MY  father  was  very  fond  of  taking  me  out  and 
about  with  him,  so  that  at  a  very  early  age 
I  became  acquainted  with  authors,  pubHshers,  and 
printers.  On  one  occasion  we  were  walking  down 
Wellington  Street,  Strand,  and  just  passing  the  office 
of  Household  Words^  when  a  hansom  cab  stopped,  and 
out  stepped  a  gaily  dressed  gentleman  ;  his  bright 
green  waistcoat,  vivid  scarlet  tie,  and  pale  lavender 
trousers  would  have  been  noticed  by  any  one,  but  the 
size  of  the  nosegay  in  his  buttonhole  riveted  my 
attention,  for  it  was  a  regular  flower  garden.  My 
father  stopped  and  introduced  me,  and  I,  who  had 
only  seen  engravings  of  the  Maclise  portrait,  and  a 
very  handsome  head  in  my  mother's  photograph  album, 
was  astonished  to  find  myself  shaking  hands  with  the 
great  novelist,  Charles  Dickens.  His  manner  was  so 
exceedingly  pleasant  and  kind  to  a  young  nobody  like 
me  that  I  was  very  much  taken  with  him  ;  and  I  was 
moreover    very    anxious    to    like    the    man    who    had 

164 


*'Uke  Little  Neir^  165 

created  Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness,  and  Little 
Nell  and  her  grandfather. 

When  I  was  ill — and  in  those  days  I  was  very,  very 
often  laid  up  and  confined  to  my  bed — I  used  to  read, 
or  get  my  mother  to  read  to  me,  The  Old  Curiosity 
Shop.  My  grandmother  had  a  first  edition  of  the 
book,  and  1  read  it  till  I  almost  knew  it  by  heart.  I 
admired  Dick  Swiveller  very  much,  disliked  Samp- 
son Brass  and  his  sister,  hated  Quilp,  pitied  the 
Marchioness,  and  adored  Little  Nell  and  her  grand- 
father. My  father  told  Dickens  something  of  this, 
and  the  great  novelist  smiled,  and  said,  "  She  is  not 
unlike   Little  Nell,  herself." 

I  felt  that  this  was  the  very  greatest  compliment 
any  one  could  pay  me,  for  if  there  was  one  person 
I  wished  to  resemble,  it  was  Little  Nell.  She  was 
such  a  very  good  girl.  I  felt  I  could  never  be  like 
her,  however  much  I  tried.  The  fact  was  I  only 
thought  of  her  when  I  was  ill,  and  forgot  my  good 
resolutions  when  I  was  up  and  about  ;  I  was  half  a 
mind  to  confess  this  to  Mr.  Dickens,  but  instead  1 
looked  up  and  blushed  with  pleasure,  and  he  smiled 
very  kindly  as  he  again  shook  hands.  I  turned  away 
in  a  great  state  of  elation,  but  my  father  I  am  sure 
had  not  appreciated  the  compliment,  for  he  said  one 
or  two  rather  uncomplimentary  things  about  Little 
Nell.  I  fancy  he  thought  I  should  grow  morbid,  and 
he  told  me  that  when  I  was  older  and  had  read  some  of 
Mr.  Dickens's  other  novels  I  should  no  longer  admire 


1 66  In   the   Sixties  and   Seventies 

The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  so  much — "  parts  of  It  are 
inimitable,  but  Little  Nell  is  unnatural  and  too  senti- 
mental," he  said  emphatically,  "  and  when  you  are 
older  you  will  see  it.  "  This  was  of  course  true  ; 
but  my  ardour  was  very  much  damped,  and  I  soon 
ceased  to  wish   to  be  like  Little  Nell. 

The  next  time  I  saw  Dickens  was  about  a  year 
after,  at  a  farewell  dinner  given  to  him  by  many  of 
the  best-known  men  of  the  day,  on  the  occasion  of 
his  second  visit  to  America.  I  had  of  course  no 
business  to  be  present  at  this  dinner  ;  but  Dr.  Richardson 
had  impressed  upon  my  parents  the  necessity  of 
my  not  being  left  always  at  home,  to  lie  on  my  board 
and  become  melancholy,  and  possibly  consumptive, 
and  one  of  his  prescriptions  was  that  I  was  to 
be  taken  to  the  theatre,  or  to  see  anything  where 
I  could  have  a  comfortable  seat  and  no  exertion. 
Even  then  if  it  had  not  happened  to  be  my 
birthday  I  do  not  think  I  should  have  been  taken 
to  the  Dickens  Dinner,  but  as  it  was  I  accompanied 
my  mother  and  a  Miss  Stevens  to  the  ladies'  gallery. 
I  remember  how  very  uncomfortable  and  small  that 
gallery  was,  how  the  band  of  the  Grenadier  Guards 
nearly  filled  it.  I  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Dan 
Godfrey  from  some  friends  who  knew  him,  and  I 
had  wished  to  see  him  ;  but  that  night  I  was  much  too 
near,  and  wished  him  and  his  band  anywhere  but 
where  it  was,  for  the  noise  was  deafening.  The 
brilliance  of  the  decorations  almost  dazzled  our  eyes, 


The  Dickens  Dinner  167 

but  I  found  one  soon  became  used  to  it,  and  then 
I  amused  myself  trying  to  pick  out  any  faces  I  knew. 
But  the  authors  did  not  show  in  great  numbers  ; 
there  were,  I   think,  far   more  artists  and   actors. 

The  hall  was  quite  new,  and  might  have  been 
built  for  the  occasion.  The  half-moons  arching  the 
twenty  mural  compartments  contained,  in  letters  of 
gold,  the  names  of  all  Dickens's  novels,  Pickwick 
being  the  one  selected  for  the  place  of  honour  at  the 
end  of  the  room  behind  the  President's  chair.  Below 
it  were  the  initials  C.  D.,  surrounded  by  a  wreath, 
and  beneath  that  another  scroll,  bearing  the  words 
"  All  the  Year  Round."  The  English  and  American 
flags  indicated  the  international  character  of  the  enter- 
tainment. 

The  band  suddenly  ceased,  and  Charles  Dickens 
entered,  accompanied  by  Lord  Lytton,  who  was 
President  ;  as  they  passed  down  the  room,  followed 
by  Sir  Francis  Grant,  President  of  the  Royal  Academy, 
Sir  Charles  Russell,  Lord  Houghton,  and  several 
others,  the  whole  room  rose  and  broke  into  loud  and 
continuous  applause,  which  lasted  till  they  had  taken 
their  places. 

We  had  a  very  good  view  of  Dickens,  and  I  can 
see  him  now,  standing  smiling  and  bowing,  a  flush 
upon  his  face.  I  even  fancy  I  can  hear,  in  this  quiet 
room,  the  echo  of  that  wonderful  applause — and  yet 
how  many,  many  years  it  is  ago,  and  how  very  few 
of  all  that  brilliant  company  there  are  left  !     Dickens 


1 68  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

looked  very  well  and  very  much  moved  and  gratified. 
As  he  was  in  evening  dress,  he  could  not  indulge 
his  taste  for  colour  ;  but  my  eyes  flew  to  his  button- 
hole— it  was  a  camellia,  surrounded  by  a  ring  of 
violets  ;  I  wished  some  little  bird  had  whispered  to 
him  to  have  chosen  either  one  or  the  other. 

We  ladies  went  into  a  room  and  had  a  cold  supper, 
or  collation  as  it  was  called  ;  then  we  returned  to 
the  gallery  in  time  for  the  speeches,  and  when  we 
returned  the  band  had  gone.  The  toast  of  the 
evening  :  *'  A  Prosperous  Voyage  and  Long  Life  to 
our  Illustrious  Guest  and  Countryman,  Charles 
Dickens  !  "  was  drunk  with  all  honours,  and  one  cheer 
more  ;  and  Dickens  must  have  been  more  than  human 
if  he  could  have  looked  round  and  not  been  thrilled 
and  stirred  by  the  presence,  and  not  only  the  presence, 
but  the  enthusiasm,  of  so  many  brother  artists.  But 
Dickens  is  very  human  in  his  writings,  and  was  in 
himself,  for  his  eyes  filled  and  his  voice  trembled 
and  shook,  and  I  clasped  my  hands  and  was  so  excited, 
I  could  have  cried  if  I  had  not  been  determined  to 
hear  and  see   all  I   could. 

I  cannot  remember  much  of  his  speech.  I  think 
I  thought  it  too  short,  which  is  a  decidedly  good 
fault  in  after-dinner  speeches.  My  impression  now 
is  that  1  expected  Dickens  to  make  more  allusion 
to  the  works  of  the  authors,  artists,  and  actors  who 
surrounded  him  ;  and  I  was  a  little  disappointed  that 
he    only    quoted    Shakespeare    and    himself.      1    know 


Charles  Dickens  169 

he  ended  his  speech  with  :  "  as  Tiny  Tim  observed, 
God  bless  us,  every  one." 

The  speeches  over,  the  ladies  retired  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  tea  and  coffee  were  served  and  the 
gentlemen  came  in.  I  sat  with  my  mother  and  Miss 
Stevens  on  a  lounge  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
we  were  soon  surrounded.  Wilkie  Collins,  Ansdell, 
Marcus  Stone,  Sir  William  Fergusson,  Blanchard 
Jerrold,  Matthew  Arnold,  Serjeant  Ballantyne,  Land- 
seer,  and  I  know  not  who  came  up.  I  remember  a 
very  pleasant  old  gentleman  came,  and  bowing  with 
old-fashioned  politeness  said  : 

"  Can  I  get  you  anything,  dear   ladies  ^  " 

He  addressed  himself  to  us  all,  and  on  my  mother 
thanking  him  and  declining,  he  sat  down  by  me  and 
talked  about  the  dinner  and  the  speeches,  and  I 
was  so  excited  I  forgot  to  be  nervous,  and  gave  him 
my  ideas,  which  seemed  to  amuse  him  vastly.  As 
to  the  hero  of  the  evening,  he  was  surrounded  by 
ladies  and  gentlemen  and  seemed  to  be  doing  nothing 
but  shake  hands.  At  last  he  came  up  to  us  with 
his  son  and  stood   talking  a  few  moments. 

"  You  are  the  girl,"  he  said,  "  who  reads  The  Old 
Curiosity   Shop  ?  " 

I  signified  that  I  was,  and  he  replied  : 

"  What  about  Little  Nell  now }  You've  grown 
so  much  I  hardly  knew  you,"  and  then  he  smiled, 
shook  hands,  and  left  us. 

When   I   sat   down   again   the  old   gentleman  asked 


lyo  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

me  if  I  was  very  fond  of  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop, 
and  I  told  him  I  was,  and  how  much  I  admired  Little 
Nell.  His  opinion  was,  I  found,  very  much  like  my 
father's,  and  not  at  all  complimentary  to  my  heroine  ; 
but  he  was  exceedingly  complimentary  to  me,  and 
when  I  said  I  wondered  Mr.  Dickens  remembered 
me,  he  replied  "  he  did  not  wonder  at  it  at  all  ; 
authors  never  forget  those  who  admire  their  works." 
And  then  my  father  came  up,  and  after  some  conversa- 
tion with  my  nice  old  gentleman  we  moved  away, 
and  my  father  told  me  I  had  been  talking  so  long 
to  Mr.  Anthony  Trollope.  I  thought  of  what  he 
had  said  about  "  authors  never  forgetting  those  who 
admire  their  works,"  and  I  wished  I  had  read  some 
of  his,  and  could  have  talked  of  them  ;  but  I  had 
never  read  a  line,  though  you  may  be  sure  I  soon 
remedied  that,  but  I  never  met  Anthony  Trollope 
again. 

My  father  and  I  went  in  search  of  Mr.  Greenwood, 
but  did  not  find  him,  though  he  was  there.  I  had 
not  forgotten  my  first  novel.  Under  a  Cloudy  and  I 
have  always  wished  to  see  the  author,  but  I've  never 
done  so  to  this  day  ;  though  whenever  I  meet  a  Mrs. 
Greenwood,  I  always  ask  her  if  she  is  the  wife  of 
Mr.  Greenwood  the  author  and  journalist,  and  she 
never  is.  I  am,  of  course,  very  disappointed  that 
she  is  not,  and  that  I  cannot  talk  of  Under  a  Cloud ; 
but  I  try  to  hide  my  chagrin,  and  I  hope  I  do  so 
successfully,    for    it    is     not     nice     to    be    taken     for 


Lord  Lytton  171 

somebody  who  you  are  not,  especially  when  the  person 
addressing  you  evidently  thinks  you  should  be  that 
particular  person. 

My  mother  and  Miss  Stevens  were  escorted  down- 
stairs by  some  of  our  friends,  and  I  was  following 
with  my  father,  but  the  crowd  was  great  and  we 
could  only  move  very  slowly  ;  as  we  stood  I  heard 
a  voice  say  : 

"  Do  tell  me  who  the  beautiful  girl  is,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  that  aristocratic  man  ?  " 

I  turned  round  to  see  which  girl,  and  met  the 
keen  eyes  of  Lord  Lytton.  We  had  his  portrait, 
with  his  autograph,  in  our  album.  I  always  called 
him  Mephistopheles.  I  had  seen  him  lingering  round 
our  sofa,  but  took  care  not  to  catch  his  eye.  He 
had  asked  the  question  of  Mr.  Frederick  Locker, 
whom  I  knew  well,  and  who  smiled  and  nodded  as 
he  answered  : 

"  Don't  know  them  ! — that's  Hain  Friswell  and  his 
daughter  ;  they  go  everywhere." 

"  That  Hain  Friswell,  the  moralist,  the  man  who 
writes  against  thieves'  literature  !  "  exclaimed  Lord 
Lytton  in  a  very  interested  tone.  "  Why,  he  looks 
like  a  Duke  !  You  know  them — do  introduce  me  : 
she's  the " 

"  Hush  !   you're   the   last  man   in   London    Friswell 

would  introduce  his  daughter  to ;  he's  d d  particular, 

I  can  tell  you,  and  she's  very  young." 

"  And  why  shouldn't  I  be  introduced,  pray  ?  " 


172  In   the   Sixties   and  Seventies 

"  You  know,  better  than  I  can  tell  you,  my  lord," 
retorted  Locker  significantly,  and  then  we  moved  on  ; 
but  I  turned  my  head  again  and  saw  them  both 
watching  us,  Lord  Lytton  with  a  very  nasty  leer  on 
his  face.  I  was  glad  I  did  not  know  him — he  frightened 
me,  and  I  wondered  if  he  had  been  doing  something 
very  wicked,  from   Mr.   Locker's  tone. 

As  we  went  slowly  down  the  stairs,  step  by  step, 
I  looking  about  me,  a  curious  thing  happened  :  a  door 
was  thrown  open  and  I  saw  right  into  a  room  ; 
it  had  a  long  table  in  it,  and  round  the  table  was 
grouped  a  number  of  men,  shouting  and  drubbing 
with  their  hands  upon  the  table,  while  on  the  table 
in  a  chair  sat  a  man  in  evening  dress,  flourishing  a 
pewter  pot  and  singing.  I  took  it  all  in  at  a  glance, 
for  the  door  was  clapped  to  instantly,  but  not  before 
I   said  aloud  : 

"  Oh,  look,  papa  !  there's  the  actual  scene  in  the 
Three  Jolly  Pigeons,  and  Tony  Lumpkin  is ." 

"  Hush  ! "  cried  my  father.  "  Look  !  there's 
mamma  waiting  for  us." 

I  looked  down  and  saw  my  mother  smiling  up  at  us. 

Afterwards  I   heard  my  father  say  : 

"  There  was  a  regular  orgie  going  on  in  one  of 
the  rooms.  Laura  said  it  was  like  the  tavern  scene 
in     She     Stoops    to     Conquer^     and     Tony     Lumpkin 

was  ,"  and  he   mentioned  the  name  I   had  been 

about  to  mention,  which  belonged  to  the  editor  of  a 
religious  magazine,  and  a  dignitary  of  the  Church. 


Lord  Tennyson  173 

About  eighteen  months  after  this  I  met  the  Poet 
Laureate. 

It  was,  I  remember,  a  beautiful  summer  morning, 
and  my  father  and  I  were  going  a  httle  way  out 
of  town.  We  were  walking  down  the  centre  plat- 
form at  Charing  Cross  Station.  I  was  dressed  in  a 
pink  cotton  frock,  with  one  flounce,  just  down  to 
my  ankles  ;  a  white  muslin  fichu  with  two  frills  came 
over  my  shoulders,  was  crossed  in  front,  went  under 
my  arms,  and  was  tied  in  a  big  bow  and  ends.  A 
large  Leghorn  hat  finished  the  costume.  The  cotton 
dress  and  the  hat  were  ordinary,  but  I  think  the  fichu, 
which  was  called  a  "  Marie  Antoinette,"  was  an  old 
fashion  and  a  fancy  of  my  mother's.  People  did 
not  dress  so  picturesquely  then  as  now,  and  as  I 
did  my  hair  up  over  a  cushion  and  it  fell  in 
curls  all  over  my  shoulders,  I  no  doubt  looked 
remarkable. 

A  train  drew  up,  and  out  of  it  stepped  a  gentleman. 
My  father  said  something  which  I  did  not  catch,  and 
going  up  to  him  stopped  and  shook  hands.  The 
gentleman  would  have  been  tall,  but  his  shoulders 
seemed  somewhat  beiit  ;  his  hair  was  long,  so  was 
his  beard  ;  he  wore  an  ugly  Inverness  cape  and  a 
large  slouch  hat  ;  he  looked  like  a  bandit  in  a  melo- 
drama, and  I  thought  him  some  poor  actor  who  had 
come  out  in  some  of  the  stage  properties.  As  he 
talked  to  my  father  I  was  conscious  of  his  looking 
very  often  at  me  ;  at  last  he  said  : 


174  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  So  this  is  your  daughter — you  must  be  proud 
of  such  a  daughter." 

My  father  smiled,  and  replied  :  "  I  could  wish  her 
to  be  stronger." 

"Is  she  delicate?"  exclaimed  Tennyson.  "Why, 
when  I  saw  you  coming  she  reminded  me  of  the 
Goddess  of  the  Morn — she  quite  brightens  up  this 
dull  and  dreary  place,"  and  he  looked  with  disgust 
round  the  station,  which  I  have  always  liked.  "  She 
looks  the  incarnation  of  youth  and  health,"  he  added. 

My  father  smiled.  "  I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  he 
said. 

Tennyson  took  my  hand  and  clasped  it  very  warmly 
as  he  shook  it.  "I  am  sure  you  are  proud  of  your 
father." 

"  Oh,  1  am,"  I  replied  very  quickly  and  emphatically. 
He  smiled,  and   turning  to  my  father,  said,  as  he 
shook   hands,  "  I  envy  you  your  aaughter,"  then  he 
sighed,  and  left  us. 

He  seemed  so  sad,  I  felt  quite  sorry  for  him,  as 
I  watched  him  walk  slowly  up  the  platform  he  said 
I  had  so  brightened.  My  father  and  I  stepped  into 
the  train  ;  and  as  we  seated  ourselves,  he  asked  : 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  your  hero  who 
wrote  In  Memoriam  and  The  Idylls  of  the  King  ?  " 

"  Was  ihat  Tennyson  ^  "  I  exclaimed,  jumping 
up  and  looking  out  of  the  carriage  window,  whence 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  back  of  the  old  gentleman 
in    the    slouch    hat    and   the    hideous    Inverness    cape. 


**  Was  he  really  Tennyson  ?  **  175 

Then  I  drew  in  my  head,  and,  resuming  my  seat, 
said  in  a  voice  of  concern,  *'  Was  he  reaily 
Tennyson  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  my  father  ;  "  I  said  so  as  I 
went  up  to  speak  to  him.  He  is  a  handsome  man 
and  a  celebrated.  People  say  he  is  not  very  genial, 
but  I  have  always  found  him  so,  and  he  was  very 
complimentary  and  charming  to  you.  You  ought 
to  be  proud  to  think  he  shook  hands  with  you,  but 
you  are  disappointed." 

"  I  am  proud,"  I  said,  "  but — of  course  it's  my 
fault — but  I  did  not  think  a  great  poet  would  talk 
like  that  to  a  girl  like  me." 

"  Why,  he  paid  you  a  great  compliment,"  said  my 
father,  "  and  better  still,  he  meant  it  ;  he  is  not  a 
man   to  pay  compliments." 

"  It  wasn't  only  what  he  said,  it  was  his  dress," 
I  began  ;  and  then  I  somehow  told  him  the  dreadful 
fact  that  I  had  taken  the  poet  for  a  third-rate  actor. 
I  was  very  much  shocked  myself,  and  should  not 
have  been  surprised  if  my  father  had  given  me  a 
good  scolding  ;  but  he  only  smiled,  and  said,  half 
sadly : 

"  It  is  a  pity,  perhaps,  that  men  of  genius  cannot 
dress  more  like  ordinary  mortals." 


CHAPTER    XV 

JAMES     HAIN      FRISWELL's     PHILANTHROPY — THE     CENSOR     DINNERS — 
SLUMMING   IN  THOSE  DAYS — A  SAD  STORY — "  HAVE  WE  BEAT  ?  " 

I  OFTEN  thought  our  house  was  a  kind  of  refuge 
for  the  unhappy  and  distressed,  for  my  father 
would,  on  any  and  every  occasion,  ask  to  the  house 
people  of  any  age  and  class  whom  he  thought  un- 
happy or  in  distress.  For  instance,  one  night,  as  he 
was  coming  out  of  a  public  meeting  and  returning 
home,  he  found  sitting  on  a  doorstep  in  a  quiet  street 
a  boy  of  about  fourteen,  quite  wet  through  and  crying 
bitterly. 

Regardless  of  the  pouring  rain,  and  his  propensity 
for  catching  cold,  my  father  stopped  and  questioned 
him  and  learnt  that  he  was  a  page  boy,  who,  having 
displeased  his  mistress,  had  run  away  and  now  knew 
not  where  to  go.  My  father  immediately  told  him 
to  come  along  with  him,  and  he  took  him  home, 
where  my  mother  had  his  clothes  dried  and  gave 
him  some  supper.  That  done,  they  did  not  know 
what  to  do  next,  for  my  father,  recalling  the  vagaries 
of  the  "  vulgar  little  boy  "  in  The  Ingoldsby  Legends^ 
was    afraid    to    send  him   to   bed  in   the   spare   room, 

176 


Hain  Friswell^s  Philanthropy  i77 

as  my  mother  suggested,  so,  the  night  having  cleared, 
he  took  him  round  to  Mr.  Williams  at  the  Refuge 
in  Great  Queen  Street.  Next  day  he  wrote  to  the 
boy's  mistress  and  his  mother  :  the  lady  kindly 
overlooked  the  boy's  conduct  and  said  she  would 
take  him  back  ;  the  poor  mother  was  so  grateful  she 
came  up  to  thank  my  father.  This  was  only  one  of 
the  instances  of  his  kindness  to  the  poor,  and  his 
was  the  hand  that  started  the  Christmas  Dinners  to 
poor  children. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  '67  that  the  first  dinner 
was  given.  They  were  called  "  the  Censor  Dinners," 
for  my  father  at  that  time  was  writing  an  article  in 
The  Evening  Star — which  perhaps  I  need  hardly  say 
was  the  evening  edition  of  The  Morning  Star^  a  daily 
paper  edited  by  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy.  The  feuilleton 
my  father  wrote  in  The  Evening  Star  was  called  "  The 
Censor,"  and  in  it  he  wrote  an  appeal,  asking,  as 
he  said,  *'  the  whole  alphabet  to  subscribe  to  this 
fund  for  doing  a  palpable  good  ;  for  if  all  those 
whose  hearts  are  touched  by  the  hungry  faces  and 
pleading  looks  of  the  truly  poor  will  only  help 
the  Censor,  and  add  to  the  subscription  already 
made,  there  will  not  be  a  merrier  or  larger  party 
on  that  blessed  day  than  that  which  he  will  gather 
round  him." 

This  appeal  was  most  promptly  and  generously 
answered,  the  King,  then  Prince  of  Wales,  being 
one  of  the  fi^st  to  send   a  large  donation  ;   and   Mr 

12 


1 78  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

Samuel  Plimsoll,  M.P,,  sent  fifty  pounds,  and  there 
were  numbers  of  guineas,  crowns,  florins,  and  even 
three-penny-bits  and  pence,  from  all  classes.  Thus 
the  Censor  Dinners  proved  a  great  success,  and  were 
the  origin  of  the  Robin  Dinners,  and  all  the  other 
Dinners — and  they  go  by  various  names — that  are 
given  to  poor  children  at  Christmas  time  to  this 
day,  though,  shame  be  it  said,  not  a  word  is  ever 
spoken  in  memory  or  praise  of  their  founder. 

I  remember  the  first  dinner  well,  for  I  went  about 
with  my  father  and  distributed  many  tickets,  and 
it  was  then  that  1  first  became  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Justin  McCarthy  and  his  family,  also  Mr.  Yates  and 
Mr.  Clement  Scott.  Mr.  Ashby  Sterry  was  an  old 
friend,  and  he  and  Mr.  McCarthy,  Edmund  Yates, 
Clement  Scott,  and  my  father  undertook  to  receive 
and  distribute  the  money. 

In  many  quarters  of  London  large  numbers  of  the 
destitute  were  fed  out  of  the  fund,  and  then  there 
remained  a  balance  in  hand.  On  Christmas  Day  four 
hundred  children  sat  down  to  a  dinner  of  roast  beef 
and  plum  pudding  served  under  the  Gospel  Arch, 
a  mission  hall  in  North  London  ;  three  hundred 
men,  women,  and  children  had  both  dinner  and 
tea  in  a  building  in  Golden  Lane,  a  thoroughfare 
in  whose  name  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  humour 
of  the  grim  and  ferocious  kind,  seeing  that  even 
copper  is  an  object  of  great  curiosity  to  the  dwellers 
therein  ;    large    quantities    of    bread,    meat,    potatoes, 


''The  Censor''  i79 

and  other  substantial  "  compliments  of  the  season " 
were  sent  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  families  in  starving 
Millwall  ;  and  two  hundred  and  eight  little  ones  dined 
together  at  the  Lambeth  Baths. 

"  The    Censor  "   made   liberal    grants  to  clergymen 
and   gentlemen    officiating  for  the  relief   of  distress — 
to   the    Rev.   C.   J.   Whitmore   for   Millwall  ;    to   Mr. 
Ewart  for   Gospel  Arch  ;   to   Mr.   Orsman  for  Golden 
Lane  ;     to    the    Rev.    G.    M.    Murphy    for  the  New 
Cut  ;    to    the   Rev.   Alfred  White,  a  Roman  Catholic 
priest,     for     Paddington  ;     and     to     several     others. 
These  gentlemen  increased  the  grant  by  contributions 
raised  in  their  own  parishes.     But  the    largest  of  the 
Censor    Dinners   took   place   at    the    Refuge,    then    in 
Great  Queen   Street,   High  Holborn  (now  in  Shaftes- 
bury Avenue),  where  five  hundred  and  twenty  children 
of    both    sexes    were    regaled    on    the    national    dish. 
To    bring    this    about    "the    Censor"   placed   himself 
in    communication   with     the    Rev.    G.    W.     M'Cree, 
known  as  "  the   bishop  of   St.    Giles's,"   and    so   well 
known    that   his  name   needs   no  more   than    mention 
here  :     he    fought    the    good    fight    against    poverty, 
hunger,   disease,   and  vice  in  one  of  the  foulest  spots 
in  London,  viz.   Seven  Dials. 

The  Refuge  is  a  kind  of  poor  boys'  casual  ward, 
and  was  called  into  existence  by  Mr.  James  Green- 
wood's famous  account  of  a  night  in  a  casual  ward. 
It  houses  a  great  number  of  boys  and  teaches  them 
trades.     It   has   branches   in   the  country  for  them  to 


i8o  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

learn  agriculture,  and  it  has  the  ships  Arethusa  and 
Chichester  as  training  ships  for  those  who  wish  to 
be  sailors. 

The  building  in  Great  Queen  Street  was  spacious  ; 
it  had  large  workshops,  dormitories  and  schoolrooms, 
and  in  the  last  named  the  dinner  took  place.  Here 
is  an  account,  written  at  the  time,  which  describes 
the  scene  better  than  I  can,  though  I  remember 
helping. 

*'  Many  ladies  and  gentlemen,  subscribers  to  the 
Censor  fund,  came  down  at  one  to  see  the  children 
eat  their  dinner.  They  found  them  seated  at  long 
tables,  running  the  entire  breadth  of  the  hall,  their 
eyes  fixed  devoutly  on  a  large  counter,  on  which 
smoked  already  two  or  three  fine  joints  of  beef,  and 
in  perfect  readiness  to  begin.  Before  they  begin, 
however,  a  word  as  to  their  appearance.  We  hope 
it  will  not  be  expected  of  us  to  say  that  they  had 
all  pretty  blue  eyes,  and  clean  faces,  and  curly  flaxen 
hair,  and  that  they  only  wanted  a  suit  of  knicker- 
bockers apiece  to  make  them  little  cherubs — because 
such  was  not  the  case.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  they  all  gaunt  and  ragged  and  black.  Not  a 
few  were  tolerably  healthy-looking  children  in  white 
pinafores,  and  with  clean  chubby  hands  and  round 
cheeks  ;  for  the  poorest  people  naturally  take  care 
that  the  bairns  shall  be  stinted  last.  Still  there 
were  among  them  examples  enough  of  the  worst 
school   of  the  picturesque — of  little    hands    that  had 


The  Censor  Dinners  i8i 

long  lost  the  dimples  of  childhood,  of  little  faces 
from  which  the  red,  and  even  the  white,  had  fled, 
wherein  the  look  of  premature  knowingnessy  anxiety, 
weariness — as  if  life  had  already  been  tried  and  found 
wanting — would  have  been  droll  if  it  had  not  been 
horrible.  This  chiefly  among  the  girls.  Among  the 
boys  there  were  not  wanting  examples  of  picturesque 
poverty — in  fierce  frowning  faces,  shaded  by  matted 
hair  ;  in  hands  that  in  action  played  the  devil's 
tattoo  as  a  voluntary  with  the  knife  and  fork,  and 
in  repose  spontaneously  coiled  themselves  up  into 
fists. 

*'  When  the  children  had  looked  at  the  beef  a 
little  while  they  were  told  to  prepare  for  grace, 
which  was  said  by  the  Rev.  William  Brock.  Nothing 
now  intervened  between  them  and  their  dinner  but 
the  processes  of  carving  and  distribution.  These  were 
not  such  simple  matters  as  they  may  appear  to  the 
proprietors  of  small  families,  for  upwards  of  five 
hundred  children  had  to  be  served,  and  served 
several  times.  Professional  waiters  could  not  be 
thought  of,  for  they  would  have  wanted  paying. 
There  were  not  half  enough  attendants  attached  to 
the  place,  so  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  present 
volunteered  for  the  service. 

"And  then  bachelors,  being  ordered  to  take  their 
places  behind  the  joints,  were  obliged  to  confess  that 
they  had  never  carved  anything  larger  than  a  rasher 
pf  bacon  in  their  lives,   and  were  made  to  fetch  ancj 


1 82  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

carry  and  give  place  to  better  men.  In  a  little  time 
hundreds  of  pewter  platters,  well  filled  with  beef 
and  potatoes,  were  placed  before  the  guests,  and  Mr. 
Williams,  the  secretary,  gave  the  word  '  Begin  !  ' — 
and  then — oh,  the  clatter  that  ensued  !  It  was  not 
five  hundred  feeding  like  one  ;  no,  that  phrase  may 
do  for  the  decorous  feasts  of  the  Church  and  the 
Law,  of  fat  prebendaries  and  well-fed  Q.C.'s  who 
have  already  breakfasted,  and  lunched,  and  enjoyed 
half  a  dozen  interludes  of  biscuits  and  sherry  through- 
out the  day  ;  it  was  five  hundred  feeding  like  five 
hundred,  each  for  himself,  and  no  pudding  for  the 
hindmost.  Knives  and  forks  rose  and  fell  in  zigzag, 
'  all  together  one  after  another,'  like  the  oars  of 
a  Cockney  eight.  Some  of  the  boys  soon  abandoned 
them  and  took  to  the  weapons  of  nature  ;  the  girls, 
with  that  instinct  of  propriety  that  never  deserts  their 
sex,  clung  to  the  encumbrances  of  art,  only  trying 
now  and  then  if  they  could  get  more  service  out  of 
their  knives  by  grappling  them  near  the  interdicted 
point.  They  were  exceedingly  well  behaved,  were 
the  little  girls.  Woman  in  miniature  is  still  woman. 
The  harshest  thing  heard  amongst  them  was  a  request 
from  Sally  to  Jane  that  she  would  not  '  scrooge ' 
her  so  ;  whereas  the  boys,  when  the  eye  of  the 
vigilant  secretary  was  off  them,  now  and  then  had 
furtive  fights,  which,  however,  they  enjoyed  without 
any  interference  with  the  business  of  the  hour,  by 
progging    one    another    with  their    knees  beneath  the 


The  Censor  Dinners  183 

table,    while  they  still  kept  itheir    hands   employed  in 
the  work  of  destruction. 

"  But  the  funniest  sight  was  not  to  be  found 
amongst  the  children.  After  all,  those  who  waited 
on  them  were  best  worth  looking  at.  Critics  cut  up 
the  beef,  clergymen  handed  it  round  ;  essayists  ladled 
out  the  potatoes,  fox  hunters  served  the  bread,  the 
Universities  '  assisted  to  gravy,'  and  the  Civil  Service 
took  the  empties  away.  The  ladies,  as  may  be 
expected,  were  everywhere  quietly  helpful,  and  made 
every  little  service  appear  doubly  precious  by  their 
grace  in  doing  it — only,  it  must  be  confessed,  they 
connived  at  the  rogueries  of  ingenious  boys  who, 
having  secreted  the  contents  of  their  platters  in  their 
pockets,  meekly  asked  when  they  were  going  to  be 
served. 

"  A  mere  buzz  and  clatter  had  almost  become  the 
normal  state  of  things,  when  suddenly  there  was 
heard  a  mighty  roar.  Pudding  was  on  the  table ; 
four  or  five  of  these  thirteen-inch  Christmas  pro- 
jectiles were  now  lying  where  the  bones  of  the  beef 
had  lain  but  a  moment  before.  How,  in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye,  these  puddings  fell  to  pieces  and 
disappeared  can  hardly  be  imagined.  The  trans- 
formations of  a  pantomime  were  nothing  to  it  :  how 
little  boys,  who  had  hitherto  born  an  unblemished 
reputation,  were  caught  trying  to  look  hungry  long 
after  they  had  made  large  slices  of  those  puddings 
part    of    themselves  ;    how    even     Httle    girls    for    a 


184  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

moment  lost  their  sense  of  the  becoming,  and  clutched 
at  the  speckled  treat — it  would  not  be  gracious  to 
tell. 

"  Enough  to  say  that  new  proof  was  afforded  of 
the  great  truth  that  we  of  English  stock,  whatever 
our  differences  of  creed,  caste,  temper,  character,  and 
opinion,  all  unite  in  a  universal  respect  and  affection — 
nay,  even  reverence  and  love — for  Christmas  Plum 
Pudding, 

"  When  dinner  was  over  a  short  grace  was  sung, 
the  Rev.  G.  W.  M'Cree  leading,  and  then  three 
cheers  were  given  for  'The  Censor,'  who  was  introduced 
to  the  boys  and  made  them  a  short  speech.  Mr. 
Plimsoll  followed  him,  and  the  secretary  spoke  the 
parting  word — the  word  evidently  of  a  man  who  knew 
exactly  how  to  manage  children,  and  above  all  these 
children  ;  they  cheered  him  to  the  very  echo,  as  indeed 
we  fear  they  would  have  cheered  a  much  less  deserving 
man,  so  thoroughly  well  pleased  did  they  seem  with 
themselves  and  everything  about  them.  After  that 
they  defiled  out  of  the  rooms  in  the  best  order,  each 
receiving  an  orange  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  It  was 
a  cheering  and  yet  a  sad  procession,  for  the  clean, 
bright,  golden  fruit  contrasted  painfully  with  the 
dirty,  rust-hued  covering  of  most  of  the  bosoms 
against  which  it  was  pressed.  None  of  the  bosoms 
in  question,  however,  seemed  to  be  oppressed  for  a 
moment  with  the  feelings  of  such  contrast  ;  on  the 
contrary,  they  were  full  of  a  joy  that  found  expression 


Slumming  in  those  Days  185 

in  songs,  sung  to  the  tune  of  '  We  won't  go  Home 
till  Morning,'  in  honour  of  their  benefactors." 

Mr.  McCarthy  said,  in  a  charming  sketch  he  sent 
me  of  my  father,  and  which  I  published  in  the  Memoir, 
"  the  association  which  I  cherished  most  in  regard 
to  him  is  that  of  his  kindness  to  the  little  children, 
who  had  nothing  to  offer  him  in  return  but  their 
unskilled,  spontaneous  thanks." 

Slumming  was  not  a  fashionable  pastime  then. 
Duchesses  and  other  fine  ladies  did  not  go  to  the  East 
End  and  show  themselves  in  their  most  fashionable 
dresses,  nor  were  there  bazaars  and  other  charitable 
functions,  where  the  expenses  are  so  great,  the  Public 
is  given  to  understand,  that  the  Hospital,  Church,  or 
Home  receives  the  minimum  of  the  money  taken. 
In  those  days  charity  had  not  become  a  profession, 
nor  an  excuse  for  fashionable  people  to  try  a  little 
shop-keeping,  while  they  show  off  themselves,  their 
dresses,  and  entertain  their  friends. 

The  free-and-easy  way  these  things  are  done  now 
would  have  shocked  even  the  most  Bohemian  members 
of  the  Bohemia  of  that  time,  and  my  father  and  his 
friends,  who  objected  to  the  Bohemia  of  those  days, 
would  have  been  aghast  at  the  fastness  of  these.  Nor 
was  it  thought  in  good  taste  to  blazon  one's  good 
works  abroad,  and  pander  to  the  vanity  of  one  class 
and  the  snobbishness  of  another.  Certainly  the  cause, 
whatever  it  was,  had  to  be  made  public  ;  but  there 
was  no  show,  no  amusement  provided,  as  there  is  at 


1 86  In   the   Sixties   and  Seventies 

a  bazaar  ;  a  letter  was  written  to  a  paper  and  people 
sent  in  their  money. 

It  was  so  in  the  case  of  Alfred  Gunn,  a  poor  man 
who  was  struck  down  on  Holborn  Hill.  It  was  in 
the  winter  of  1861,  when  garrotting  was  so  prevalent. 
Mr.  Gunn  was  a  scale  maker,  a  business  which  requires 
great  delicacy  and  accuracy.  One  night  he  was  re- 
turning home  from  his  work,  and  as  he  walked  rapidly 
up  Holborn  Hill  a  man  and  woman  just  on  the  rise 
of  the  hill  made  at  him  ;  he,  seeing  their  intention, 
rapidly  dodged  them,  and  tried  to  seize  the  woman. 
In  this  he  would  have  succeeded,  but  the  man  struck 
at  him  suddenly  with  a  sharp  pen-knife,  and  the  blade 
entered  his  left  eye.  He  never  forgot  the  long  thin 
fingers  and  the  sharp  blade,  but  bore  the  dreadful 
recollection  to  his  grave. 

A  policeman  found  him  and  took  him  to  St. 
Bartholomew's  Hospital.  There  he  remained  six  weeks  ; 
and  after  being  sent  out  for  a  few  days  to  recruit  his 
strength,  an  operation  was  performed,  and  the  eye 
taken  out  by  Mr.  Paget  ;  but  the  other  eye  went  from 
sympathy,  and  he  became  totally  blind,  which  a  painful 
operation  at  Charing  Cross  failed  to  cure.  When  my 
father  heard  of  the  case  and  went  to  see  Alfred  Gunn, 
he  found  him  and  his  young  wife  and  infant  child  in  a 
miserable  garret  ;  and  my  father,  in  speaking  of  him, 
said  :  "A  pitiable  sight  he  was,  pale,  sickly,  and  in 
rags,  without  a  coat,  as  he  sat  glaring  at  me  with 
one  sightless  eye." 


From  Prince  to  Dustmen  187 

His  wife,  an  industrious  needlewoman,  had  just  kept 
a  roof  over  their  heads,  but  they  were  almost  starving 

when  Mr.  I ,  a  friend  of  my  father's,  found  them. 

In  this  case  an  appeal  was  made  to  the  public  in  The 
Morning  Star  ;  the  King,  then  Prince  of  Wales,  again 
sent  the  first  donation.  I  was  quite  a  child  at  the  time, 
but  I  well  remember  General  Knollys's  letter  coming, 
and  my  father's  delight.  I'he  letter  says  (I  have  it 
by    me   still)  :   "  I    am   commanded    by   the   Prince  to 

send for  the  use  of  Alfred  Gunn,  whose  sad  case 

was  this  morning  brought  under  the  notice  of  his 
Royal  Highness." 

"  God  bless  the  Prince  of  Wales,"  said  my  father 
as  he  read  the  letter. 

From  the  Prince  to  dustmen,  who  collected  their 
beer  money  and  sent  it  by  a  deputation — I  remember 
the  deputation  coming,  also  some  coalheavers,  who 
wore  their  curious  leather  hats,  which  had  large  flaps 
resting  on  the  backs  of  their  necks  and  coming  down 
to  their  shoulders, — from  Members  of  Parliament, 
who  sent  their  guineas,  to  workgirls  who  saved  their 
pence, — upwards  of  ^280  was  collected. 

The  money  was  invested  in  a  shop  at  Berkhampstead, 
and  the  Gunns  began  a  new  career  which  for  some 
time  was  successful.  Mrs.  Gunn  did  her  best,  but 
she  was  not  a  businesslike  woman,  and  to  manage  a 
house,  a  small  servant — and  servants  of  any  and  every 
size  take  some  managing — a  business  and  a  lodger,  is 
not  an  easy  task  ;  then,  too,  her  poor  husband's  health 


1 88  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

gave  way  and  he  fell  into  consumption,  and  was  finally, 
by  my  father's  instrumentality,  admitted  to  the  Con- 
sumption Hospital  at  Hampstead.  The  business  was 
sold  and  his  wife  and  children  went  to  live  near  him. 
In  fact,  Mrs.  Gunn  went  into  the  Hospital  as  a  nurse, 
and  was  with  him  till  he  died.  It  is  a  miserable  story, 
for  they  were  both  young  and  fairly  prosperous  people 
when  the  assault  occurred. 

My  father  still  took  an  interest  in  the  parish  where 
he  had  spent  the  first  years  of  his  married  life,  and 
knowing  this  the  different  vicars  of  St.  Philip's, 
Granville  Square,  were  not  backward  in  asking  his 
help.  It  was  in  this  way  that  the  following  story 
concerning  a  certain  Mrs.  Pugh,  who,  at  the  age  of 
eighty,  was  living  in  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt,  in  a 
second  floor  back  in  Easton  Street,  Exmouth  Street, 
came  to  his  ears.  My  father  did  for  her  what  he  had 
done  for  Alfred  Gunn — he  appealed  to  the  public,  and 
thus  her  last  days  were  not  spent  in  the  workhouse,  ot 
which  she  had  a  great  dread. 

Here  is  her  story  ;  I  make  no  apology  for  adding  it, 
as  I  think  she  was  a  heroine,  and  deserving  of  a  better 
fate  than  to  pass  her  last  years  in  such  squalor. 

Mrs.  Pugh  was  a  pretty  little  quaint  old  lady,  the 
cousin  of  Dr.  Arnold  of  Lincoln's  Inn.  From  the 
time  of  the  Conquest,  she  told  us,  "  the  Crown  has 
never  wanted  an  arm  of  the  Arnolds  to  fight  for  her." 

Her  great-grandfather  served  under  Marlborough  ; 
her    father    under    Nelson,    and    was    captain    of    the 


A  Sad  Story  189 

main-top  to  Lord  Collingwood,  when,  after  the  death  of 
Nelson,  he  cruised  the  seas  to  protect  our  merchants. 
On  board  Collingwood's  ship  sailed  Arnold  and  his  little 
daughter,  who  was   companion  to  Lady  Collingwood. 

One  day  the  frigate  gave  chase  to  a  French  ship, 
armed  to  the  teeth,  crowded  with  men,  that  stole  out 
of  Brest  Harbour.  At  the  roar  of  the  cannon  the 
little  maid  ran  as  hard  as  she  could  to  hide  away,  but 
the  surgeon  caught  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  "  com- 
panion "  (Surgeon  Cole),  ready  for  action  too,  and  said  : 

"  You'll  do,  my  little  maid  ;  sit  here  and  pick  tow 
for  the  men's  wounds." 

So  the  little  girl,  trembling  with  fright,  sat  under 
the  ladder,  with  busy  fingers  picking  what  we  call  charpi ; 
and,  while  the  battle  roared  above  her,  and  the  men 
cheered  and  fell,  and  the  "  companion  "  grew  slippery 
with  blood,  every  now  and  then  the  poor  child  peered 
forth  to  see  if  they  were  bringing  down  her  father  ; 
but  one  of  the  boys,  who  was  picking  tow  at  her  side, 
covered  her  eyes  with  his  hand  once  and  said  : 

"Don't  look,  Fanny,  don't  look  at  that,''  and  then, 
she  supposed,  some  more  ghastly  object  went  by. 

The  little  maid's  father  was  not  carried  down,  and 
presently  the  firing  ceased,  and  there  was  a  great  cheer, 
and  the  first  man  who  stepped  down  into  the  cockpit 
to  see  his  wounded  men  was  the  great  and  good  Lord 
Collingwood  himself. 

"  Well  !  "  said  he  to  Surgeon  Cole,  with  a  great 
sigh  of  relief,  '■^  thank  God  that's  over! 


190  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  What  !  "  cried  the  little  maid,  jumping  up. 
"  Have  we  beat  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  about  we^  my  little  girl,"  said  the 
great  seaman,  "  but  the  French  have  given  in." 

"  And  I  do  know  about  we^'  said  Surgeon  Cole, 
red-handed  now,  alas  !  "  for  she  stuck  to  her  place  and 
picked  tow  and  did  her  share  like  the  rest  of  us." 

True  to  her  lineage,  Fanny  Arnold  (married  to  a 
Pugh)  sent  her  sons  to  fight  for  her  Queen,  and  the 
last,  then  in  the  60th  Regiment,  died  at  Devonport 
some  years  before  Mrs.  Pugh's  circumstances  were 
made  known. 

I    well   remember  going  with    my  father  to  see  the 
gentle,  little  old  woman — pretty  still,  though  living  in 
poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt.     She  was  in  receipt  of  parish 
relief,  and  had  only  \s.  3^,  a  week  to  live  on  !      The 
house  was  very  dirty  and  dilapidated,  the  stairs  worn 
into   holes,   the  plaster   dropping   from   the  walls   and 
ceiling.     But    Mrs.    Pugh's    room    was    scrupulously 
clean,  though  very  tiny  ;  the  fender  was  in  two  pieces, 
the    hearthrug    in     holes,    there    was    no    carpet,    and 
the    window    principally    consisted    of    brown     paper. 
Mrs.  Pugh  was  out,  so  my  father  suggested  we  should 
buy  her  a  few  things  and   make   her  room  look   more 
comfortable.     We    found    our    way    downstairs    again 
and  purchased    a   fender   and   a   large   warm  rug  at  a 
shop  close  by,   also  a  thick  coloured    blanket  for  her 
bed  ;  and,  accompanied  by  the  shopman,  we  returned 
to    the  house,    and,  dismissing   him  at   the  door,  we 


''A  New  Eye**  191 

carried  up  our  purchases.  Mrs.  Pugh  was  still  out, 
so  we  put  down  the  new  rug  and  fender  and  covered 
the  patchwork  quilt  with  the  gay  blanket.  We  then 
went  down  again  to  look  for  a  glazier  and  to  order 
some  coal.  When  we  returned  our  heroine  was  in 
her  room.  She  had  rolled  up  the  rug  and  stuffed 
it  under  the  bed  with  the  new  fender,  and  she  had 
the  old  fender  and  rug  back  in  their  places,  and  the 
blanket  she  had  hung  up  like  a  shawl  behind  the 
door.  My  father  said  nothing,  but  I  could  see  he 
was  desperately  disappointed.  He  told  her  her 
window  should  be  mended  and  cleaned,  but  she 
seemed  anything  but  grateful  ;  all  she  wanted,  she 
said,  was  "  a  nQW  eye  "  in  her  spectacles,  as  she  could 
not  read  her  only  book,  the  Bible.  Her  husband's 
and  sons'  photographs  hung  round  the  mantelshelf 
with  some  funeral  cards.  They  were  very  faded  and 
poor  likenesses,  but  these  were  her  treasures,  and  she 
quite  brightened  up  when  she  talked  of  those  long 
past  days  when  she  was  young,  and  she  was  very 
proud  that  "  the  Crown  and  the  country  had  never 
wanted  an  arm  of  the  Arnolds  to  fight  for   them." 

Our  visit  to  her  was  paid  before  the  letter  appeared 
in  the  papers.  I  do  not  know  how  long  she  lived, 
but  I  think  about  eighteen  months  or  two  years 
after  the  letter  appeared  ;  and  money  enough  was 
found  to  keep  her  in  comparative  comfort  while  living, 
and  to  bury  her  when  she  died. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

MR.  AND  MRS.  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY — WILLIAM  BARRY — MISS  HERAUD— 
HENRIE  DRAYTON — "  THE  GINGERBREAD  MAIDEN  " — LETTERS  FROM 
HANS   CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN. 

MR.  McCarthy  was  one  of  the  many  charm- 
ing Irishmen  we  knew.  He  is  of  middle 
height,  and  had  in  those  days  auburn  hair,  which  he 
wore  rather  long.  I  never  saw  him  without  spectacles, 
through  which  he  used  to  beam  kindly  on  all.  I 
can  well  remember  him  at  the  Censor  Dinner  carrying 
round  bread,  or  plates  of  meat  and  vegetables,  or 
helping  me  to  ladle  out  potatoes  and  gravy,  and  I 
can  again  see  him  standing  looking  down  the  long 
tables,  a  great  look  of  pleasure,  gratification,  and 
kindness  on  his  face.  I  always  felt  confidence  in 
Mr.  McCarthy  ;  he  neither  treated  me  as  if  I  were  a 
small  child,  nor  paid  me  compliments,  but  his  kind  and 
pleasant  manner  set  me  at  my  ease,  and  he  was  one 
of  the  men  of  letters  I  was  always  delighted  to  see  ; 
so  much  so  that  my  father  used  to  chaff  me  and  say  : 

"  I  am  sure  your  favourite  is  a  Fenian  ;  some  day 
we  shall  hear  of  his  being  put  in  orison,  then  what 
will  you  do  .'^  " 

192 


Mr.  Justin  McCarthy  193 

1  was  rather  scared  at  this,  and  1  used  to  look  at 
Mr.  McCarthy  and  wonder  of  what  he  was  thinking, 
and  as  he  was  usually  very  silent  I  wondered  if  he 
were  hatching  plots  to  blow  up  the  Government,  or 
one  of  the  prisons,  but  I  always  decided  that  he  looked 
a  great  deal  too  kind,  and  that  he  must  be  thinking 
of  the  plots  of  his  novels — he  could  not  otherwise 
look  so  good   and  happy. 

But  if  1  was  charmed  with  Mr.  McCarthy,  I  was 
equally  so  with  his  wife  and  children.  Mrs.  McCarthy 
was  very  handsome,  and  my  idea  of  Marie  Antoinette 
She  had  the  same  clear-cut  features,  a  most  delicate 
skin,  and  beautiful  grey  hair — in  fact,  she  was  the 
image  of  De  La  Roche's  Marie  Antoinette.  Her 
manners  were  charming  and  her  Irish-English  so  very 
pretty.  Then  there  were  the  two  young  people, 
both  delightful.  I  can  vividly  recall  a  dramatic  per- 
formance we  had  in  our  drawing-room,  in  which 
Miss  McCarthy,  though  quite  a  child,  played  Mrs. 
Bouncer  in  Box  and  Cox  in  a  wonderful  manner — she 
had  quite  caught  the  spirit  of  the  farce.  Justin 
Huntly  McCarthy  and  my  brother  Harry  were  re- 
spectively "  Box  "  and  "  Cox." 

My  father  often  used  to  take  one  or  two  ot  us 
down  to  the  theatre  and  put  us  into  a  seat ;  he  would 
stay  sometimes  himself,  but  he  more  often  left,  and 
came  back  and  fetched  us.  My  governess  and 
I  frequently  went  to  the  play  in  this  way.  I  saw 
Bellmore  in  Dion  Boucicault's   play    The   Flying  Scud. 

13 


194  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

It  was  acted  at  the  Holborn,  which  is  now  a  music 
hall,  but  was  then  a  well-known  and  fashionable 
theatre.  The  Flying  Scud  had  a  strong  caste  ;  Bellmore 
was  the  old  jockey  "  Nat  Gosling,"  Miss  Bessie  Foote 
"Kate  Rideout,"  and  Lord  Woodbie  "Fanny  Josephs." 
We  enjoyed  the  piece  immensely.  At  the  close  of 
the  performance  my  father  came  in  to  fetch  us,  and 
introduced  me  to  two  young  Irishmen  who  had  been 
sitting  near  us  in  the  dress  circle  ;  they  were  William 
Barry  and  his  brother  Michael.  They  were  both 
young — the  latter  quite  a  youth,  just  over  from  Ire- 
land for  a  holiday  and  to  visit  his  brother. 

"  I'm  showing  Michael  about  the  town,"  said 
William  Barry.  "  I  thought  you  were  your  father's 
daughter — he  looked  like  '  the  relieving  officer.'  " 

I  was  not  prepossessed  by  this  address.  I  had 
heard  both  young  men  and  young  women  call  their 
father  "  the  governor,"  but  I  did  not  know  that  in 
the  slang  of  the  time  a  father  was  dubbed  "  the 
relieving  officer."  I  disliked  slang,  and  I  strongly 
objected  to  my  father  being  spoken  of  in  such  terms. 
Mr.  Barry  saw  that  I  was  annoyed,  and  he  quite 
made  amends  by  saying  that  "  it  was  a  silly  expression 
and  he  was  sorry  he  had  used  it." 

William  Barry  was  at  that  time  editor  of  The 
London  Review,  which  was  then  the  property  of  Mr. 
McCullagh  Torrens,  M.P.,  another  friend  of  my 
father's,  and  one  who  not  only  gave  liberally,  but 
came  and  assisted  at  the  Censor  Dinners. 


William  Barry  195 

In  those  days  there  used  to  be  a  regular  coterie 
of  journalists  and  men  of  letters  who  met  at  an 
informal  dinner  at  the  Whitefriars  Club,  which  was 
held  in  Radley's  Hotel,  an  old-fashioned  place  which 
has  been  improved  out  of  existence. 

Most  of  the  staff  of  The  Evening  and  Morning 
Star,  which,  as  I  have  said  in  a  former  chapter,  was 
edited  by  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy,  met  at  the  White- 
friars. There  was  the  well-known  journaHst  Mr. 
E.  D.  J.  Wilson,  now  of  The  Times^  Mr.  Charles 
Cooper,  afterwards  so  well  known  on  The  Scotsman, 
Sir  Edward  Russell,  now  editor  of  The  Liverpool  Post, 
who  has  not  only  distinguished  himself  as  a  journalist 
and  editor,  but  as  an  author  and  a  debater  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  There  was  Mr.  Edmund  Yates, 
who  wrote  a  social  article  in  The  Morning  Star,  and 
there  was  my  father,  who  wrote  for  The  Evening  Star^ 
and  signed  himself  "  The  Censor."  Neither  "  The 
Flaneur  "  (Edmund  Yates)  nor  "  The  Censor " 
(J.  Hain  Friswell)  agreed  with  the  Radical  politics 
of  The  Star,  but,  to  quote  Mr.  McCarthy,  "  each 
writer  had  his  distinct  province  of  literature  and  art, 
theatricals  and  town  talk." 

Mr.  Barry's  particular  bent  was,  I  fancy,  natural 
history  and  sport.  I  know  he  wrote  articles  on 
these  subjects  for  The  Daily  T^ews,  and  he  is  the 
author  of  Holiday  Rambles,  Moorland  and  Stream, 
Sporting  Sketches,  etc.  He  was  a  most  genial,  brilliant 
little  man,  but  very  delicate-looking.     He  often  came 


196  In   the  Sixties   and   Seventies 

to  our  house  and  we  all  grew  to  like  him,  for  he 
was  very  simple  and  natural,  having  the  sympathy 
and  wit  which  generally  characterise  the  Celtic  tem- 
perament, and  he  was  very  kind-hearted.  I  remember 
one  notable  evening  when  he  had  coaxed  me  out  of 
my  corner,  and  when  I  was  asked  to  play  he  reassured 
me  by  telling  me  the  old  story  of  the  clergyman 
who  was  very  nervous,  and  who  used  to  learn  his 
sermon  by  heart  and  declaim  it  in  the  kitchen  garden 
to  the  cabbages. 

"  He  learnt  it  perfectly,"  said  Mr.  Barry,  "  but 
confessed  to  a  friend  that  he  expected  it  would  fizzle 
out  of  his  head  when  he  mounted  the  pulpit.  '  Non- 
sense,' said  his  friend,  '  think  that  you  are  still  in 
the  garden  and  that  you  have  a  congregation  of 
cabbages.'  " 

The  story  was  only  just  finished  when  my  governess, 
who  played  beautifully,  came  towards  me  and  told  me 
I   must  play. 

"  Oh  I  can't,  I  can't,"  I  said,  drawing  back. 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  you  can,"  said  Mr.  Barry  ;  and  as 
1  knew  I  must,  1  rose  from  the  seat  to  which  he  had 
beguiled  me,  and  went  up,  with  fear  and  trembling, 
to  play  a  Lieder  of  Mendelssohn's.  Mr.  Barry  came 
with  me,  and  as  I  began  falteringly  he  whispered  : 

"  Cabbages — we  are  all  cabbages." 

I  was  so  nervous  that  I  could  scarcely  see,  but  I 
determined  not  to  disgrace  myself  before  this  kind 
little     man,    so    I     set     my    teeth    and     played,   quite 


^^AII  Cabbages''  i97 

forgetting  my  audience,  and  everything  but  my  beloved 
Mendelssohn. 

I  came  back  to  earth  rather  suddenly,  for  a  voice 
said,  "  Well  done  !  "  and  looking  up  I  saw  Mr.  Edward 
Clarke  standing  near  with  my  governess,  who  was 
about  to  play  his  accompaniment  for  him,  for  he  sang 
sentimental  songs  very  well  indeed,  having  a  pleasant, 
though  not  powerful,  voice.  Mr.  Barry  escorted  me 
back   to   our   seat   on   the   sofa. 

"  Now  don't  deny  it,"  he  whispered  ;  "  I  know  you 
thought  we  were  all  cabbages." 

'*  I   forgot  everything   but  the  music." 

"  That's  right,  that's  the  way  ;  now  you  must  never 
be  nervous  again,"  returned  the  little  man,  beaming 
at  me. 

I  looked  round   the  room,   then   I   laughed. 

"  They  are  very  celebrated  cabbages,"  I  said,  "  and 
I  think  it  is  great  impudence  of  us  to  call  them  so." 

A  very  serious  look  came  into  the  young  Irishman's 
eyes  as   he  glanced  at   the  company. 

"  Fame,"  he  said,  "  fame  is  worth  nothing — what 
does  your  favourite  Tennyson  say  }  '  'Tis  only  noble 
to  be  good.'  That's  the  crucial  test  ;  soon  we  shall 
all   be  dust   and  ashes." 

I  knew  not  what  to  say,  and  so  looked  round  the 
room  and  listened  to  the  ceaseless  buzz  of  conversation. 
Parties  always  more  or  less  saddened  me,  so  I  was 
not  so  much  astonished  at  Mr.  Barry  ;  but  his  serious 
mood   soon   passed  oft',    and   he    drew  me  out  on  my 


198  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

favourite  subjects — poetry  and  politics.  I  am  sure  he 
was  very  much  amused  at  my  opinions,  especially  when 
I  confided  to -him  my  ambition  to  have  a  Salon,  like 
Madame  de  Stael,  where  I  could  gather  all  the  learned 
women  and  men  around  me.  He  never  laughed,  but 
quite  gravely,  though  not  too  gravely,  asked  me 
whether  I  had  decided  where  the  Salon  was  to  be. 

"  I   have   thought  of  Park   Lane,"    I   replied. 

"  It's  rather  expensive,"   he  said  quietly. 

"  YeSj  I  have  thought  of  that.  1  want  to  be  a 
singer,  but  my  father  won't  even  let  me  join  Leslie's 
Choir,  though  I've  been  asked.  My  singing  master 
teaches  a  number  of  the  professionals  at  the  Italian 
Church,  and  says  I  have  a  fine  voice  ;  he  wants  to 
train  me  for  the  Opera,  but  /  want  to  be  a  ballad 
singer.  My  father  says  he  won't  let  me  go  *  singing 
about  on  platforms  '  ;  he  doesn't  approve  of  women 
earning  their  living  like  that,  I  know." 

This  was  my  grievance,  and  I  poured  it  out  to 
this  kind  friend  ;  but  I  was  grievously  disappointed 
in  his  answer,  which  did  not  come  at  once,  for  the 
buzz  of  conversation  had  stopped,  and  the  beautiful 
tenor  voice  of  Mr.  Fielding  (then  tenor  of  St.  Paul's) 
rang  out  with  : 

Come,    come    live    in    my    heart,    live    in    my   heart   and    pay   no 

rint, 
Come,  come  live  in  my  heart,  live  in  my  heart,  Mavourneen. 

We  listened  breathlessly  to  the  end,  and  then  under 
cover  of  the  clapping  Mr.  Barry  whispered  : 


'*The  Happiest  Life'*  199 

"  That's  the  happiest  life  for  a  woman — to  live  in 
some  good  man's  heart." 

"And  pay  no  rint,"  I  interpolated. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  ;  "  yes,  the  happiest  life  is  a  private 
station." 

I  was  not  quite  clear  what  this  meant. 

"  Don't  you  intend  to  marry  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  I  replied  indifferently. 
'*  Most  people  do." 

Then  he  laughed.  "  What  a  melancholy  tone  !  "  he 
said. 

Whilst  we  had  talked  the  room  had  partially  been 
cleared  of  furniture,  and  Miss  Heraud  gave  us  the 
sleep-walking  scene  in  Macbeth^  and  it  was  so  realistic 
that  I  clenched  my  hands  to  keep  from  crying  out.  The 
silence  was  perfect  ;  after  it  was  over  every  one 
seemed  to  give  a  gasp  of  relief — it  was  so  intensely 
painful. 

Henrie  Drayton,  a  very  well  known  singer  with  a 
terrific  voice,  sang  "  Drinking."  Mr.  Drayton  was 
a  fine,  big  man  and  had  a  very  powerful  bass  voice, 
which  would  have  penetrated  through  all  the  walls  of 
a  whole  street  of  modern  houses.  He  made  quite  a 
picture  as  he  stood  waving  a  silver  cup  and  singing 
the  refrain  : 

Drinking — Drink — ing — Dri — ink — ing  ! 

That  same  evening  Mr.  Fielding  sang  "  Maid  of 
Athens,"  so  beautifully  that   I   am   sure  no   one   could 


200  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

forget  it.  At  the  close  of  the  evening,  as  a  compliment 
to  our  Irish  guests,  "  Come  Back  to  Erin,"  "  The 
Shan- Van- Vach,"  and  *'The  Wearin'  o'  the  Green  "  were 
sung,  and  every  one  joined  in  chorus.  As  the  en- 
thusiasm grew  the  noise  was  great,  so  much  so  that 
my  mother  laughingly  said  she  would  have  to  shut 
the  windows,  for  she  was  "  sure  the  police  would 
come  in  and  take  us  up  for  holding  a  Fenian 
meeting." 

Mr.  Barry,  having  induced  me  to  come  out  of  my 
corner  and  play,  did  not  forget  his  good  offices,  for 
he  sent  me  almost  every  week  for  two  or  three  seasons 
tickets  for  recitals  and  concerts,  to  which  my  governess 
used  to  take  me.  Amongst  others,  I  heard  Arabella 
Goddard,  Madame  Schumann,  and  Madeline  Schiller. 
William  Barry  was  always  there  to  meet  us  and  always 
sat  at  my  side.  He  often  asked  me  why  I  did  not 
try  to  write  stories,  telling  me  he  was  sure  I  could, 
and  saying  it  was  better  than  being  a  public  singer, 
but  to  that  I  would  not  agree, 

"  Some  day  you  will  bring  out  a  book  and  I  will 
review  it,"  he  said,  but  I  used  to  shake  my  head. 

However,    Mr.    Barry's    words    came    true  :     about 

this  time  Miss  W ,  my  governess,  took  to  writing 

fairy  tales  and  sending  them  to  The  Quiver.  One 
day,  when  she  was  scolding  me  for  my  composition 
on  some  Dryasdust  subject,  I  said  in  a  fit  of  bravado 
that  I  was  sure  I  could  write  a  story.  Having  made 
this  statement,  she    kept  me   to   it,  and    1  wrote  one, 


A  Dedication  201 

which  she  said  was  so  good  she  would  send  it  to 
The  Quiver.  It  was  sent  anonymously,  and  to  my 
delight  and  amazement  appeared.  But  my  pleasure 
was  very  much  diminished  when  I  found  my  father 
was  quite  cross  about  it  and  told  me  severely  "  that 
he  did  not  want  a  daughter  like  Caddy  Jellyby,*  with 
fingers  inked  to  the  bone."  At  this  1  was  inconsolable  ; 
I  was  but  fifteen  at  the  time. 

In  about  a  week  I  received  a  substantial  cheque  for 
my  story,  and  encouraged  by  my  governess  I  wrote 
many  others,  which  were  a  year  or  two  afterwards 
collected  and  brought  out  as  a  book  called  'J/ie 
Gingerbread  Maiden.     This  I 

De&lcatcb 

WITH    SINCERE    ADMIRATION 
TO 

HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 

THE    PRINCE    OF   CHILD   STORY    TELLERS 

WHO    BY    HIS    GENIUS 

HAS   GIVEN    SO    MUCH    PLEASURE   TO    BOYS    AND    GIRLS 

AND    TAUGHT    SO    MUCH    WISDOM    TO 

MEN    AND    WOMEN, 

A  copy  was  sent  to  Hans  Andersen  ;  Mr.  Frost, 
a  friend  of  my  father's,  kindly  promising  to  deliver  it. 
A  few  weeks  afterwards  I  received  from  Mr.  Frost 
a  letter  he  had  had  from  Andersen,  and  which  he 
had  been  good  enough  to  translate  for  me.  It 
ran  : 

*  Caddy  Jellyby,  a  character  in  Dickens's  novel  Bleak  House, 


202  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"Kdlighed.    (Quietness.) 
"  August  2oth,  1874. 

"Dear   Mr.  Frost, 

"  I  received  your  kind  letter  at  my  little  country 
retreat,  where  I  expect  to  stay  some  time  longer.  As 
soon  as  I  return  to  town  I  shall  go  to  my  old  chambers 
in  Nyhain,  where  1  shall  hope  to  sec  you,  to  thank 
you  for  your  kindness,  and  to  receive  the  little  book 
which  you  tell  me  a  young  English  authoress  has 
given  you  in   London  for  me. 

"  My  health  is  rather  better,  but  I  suffer  very  much 
from  rheumatism,  which  I  am  sorry  to  say  seems 
on  the  increase. 

*'  One  of  these  days  I  shall  get  Nier  &  Fyern  * 
to  read  your  interesting  descriptions. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  H.  C.  Andersen." 

"  The  prince  of  child  story  tellers  "  had  always  been 
a  hero  of  mine,  so  one  may  be  sure  that  I  was  highly 
pleased  with  this  letter  ;  but  it  was  nothing  to  my 
delight  of  a  few  weeks  afterwards  when  I  received, 
from  Hans  Andersen  himself,  the  following  letter 
written  in  English,  and  enclosing  a  large  cabinet  portrait 
of  him.  It  is  well  known  that  he  was  very  fond  of 
flowers,  and  both  the  portrait  and  the  letter  are 
characteristic  of  him  ;  in  the  former  he  is  seated  with 
a  large  bunch  of  flowers  in  his  hand,  and  on  the  latter 

*  Near  and  Far,   a  weekly   paper   something  like   The   Saturday 
Review,  to  which  Mr.  Frost  was  a  contributor. 


Hans  Christian  Andersen  203 

he  had  stuck  a  large  coloured  bunch  of  flowers  like 
those  one  sees  upon  crackers.  The  letter  ran  as 
follows  : 

"  Much  Honoured  Miss  Friswell, 

"  After  having  removed  to  town  I  received, 
through  Mr.  Frost,  your  cordial  letter  and  beautiful 
book  The  Gingerbread  Maiden  and  Other  Stories.  Your 
sympathy  towards  me  and  your  flattering  dedication 
make  me  poor  in  words  to  express  my  thanks. 
"  I  am,  with  gratitude, 

"  Yours  respectfully, 
"  Hans  Christian  Andersen." 

In  a  letter  which  Mr.  P'rost  some  time  afterwards 
wrote  to  my  father,  he  said  that  Hans  Andersen  spoke 
most  flatteringly  of  my  stories,  and  especially  liked  the 
first,  and  begged  for  my  photograph  to  be  sent  to  him. 

When  my  book  came  out  we  were  living  in  Kent, 
where  we  had  gone  on  account  of  my  father's  health. 
We  had  been  obliged  to  give  up  our  literary  evenings, 
and  unless  we  were  staying  in  town  we  seldom  went  to 
any,  for  Bexley  Heath  was  somewhat  out  of  the  world. 
But  in  spite  of  this  I  one  day  received  a  number  of 
Public  Opinion^  in  which  there  was  a  very  good  little 
notice  of  The  Gingerbread  Maiden  ;  it  was  sent  to  me 
by  Mr.  Barry,  who  1  did  not  know  had  seen  my  book, 
and  who  was  very  ill,  for  the  bright  young  Irishman's 
life  was  drawing  to  a  close — he  was  a  victim  of  that 
dreadful  disease  consumption. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

AN  "AT  home''  at  THE  MCCARTHYS' — WILLIAM  BLACK — MR.  RICE  ON 
"women's  heroes  "  — WILLIAM  BLACK'S  KINDNESS  —  RICHARD 
WHITEING. 

IN  the  summer  of  1870  we  used  to  go  very  often 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Justin  McCarthy's,  who,  having 
returned  from  a  visit  to  the  United  States,  had  taken 
rooms  close  by  in  Bedford  Place,  Russell  Square,  and 
had  resumed  their  pleasant,  informal  Saturday  evenings. 
These  At  Homes  were  very  like  our  own,  but  in 
those  days  every  one  was  talking  of  the  Franco- 
German  War,  and  Ireland  and  its  troubles,  and  its 
songs,  seemed  to  be  for  the  time  forgotten.  Sympathy 
ran  high  on  the  German  side,  and  we  were  all  taken 
up  with  German  literature  and  the  German  character. 
Indeed,  I  believe  that  scarcely  any  one  in  all  that 
little  assembly  sympathised  with  the  French,  though 
many  pitied  Napoleon,  chiefly  because  he  was  so  ill. 
I  am  sure  all  rejoiced  at  the  way  the  war  terminated, 
and  would  have  endorsed  Canon  Kingsley's  opinion, 
who  in  writing  of  the  termination  of  the  war  said, 
"  It  is  the  triumph  of  Christianity  and  the  Gentle 
Life." 

Sympathising  so  thoroughly  with  the  German  cause, 

204 


The  McCarthys'  At  Home  205 

Mr.  McCarthy  naturally  had  many  German  friends, 
and  it  was  at  his  house  I  met  Mathilde  Bhnd,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Kroeker,  and  others.  Mrs.  Kroeker  was 
a  daughter  of  the  poet  Ferdinand  Freihgrath,  whose 
works  had  many  Enghsh  admirers,  Mr.  McCarthy 
and  WilHam  Black,  the  novelist,  being  amongst  the 
foremost.  Mr.  Kroeker  could  sing  a  good  German 
song.  One  in  particular  I  remember  called  "  Prinz 
Eugen,"  and  we  all  joined  in  the  "  Wacht  am  Rhein," 
which  was  sung  whenever  there  was  news  of  the 
French  being  defeated.  I  did  not  feel  so  thoroughly 
German  as  some,  perhaps  because  war  seemed  to  me 
too  dreadful  to  be  a  source  of  rejoicing.  1  could 
not  forget  the  horrors  of  it.  Songs  of  triumph  seemed 
almost  cruel,  though  I  was  by  no  means  on  the  side 
of  the  French,  who  I  believed  brought  most  of  their 
sufferings  on  themselves. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  At  Homes  that  I  met  WilHam 
Black,  I  may  say  for  the  first  and  only  time  ;  for 
though  I  knew  Miss  Simpson,  whom  he  afterwards 
married,  intimately,  it  happened  that  we  never  saw 
much  of  each  other  after  her  marriage,  though  as 
girls  we  were  often  together.  Mr.  Black  had  at 
this  time  published  two  of  his  best  novels — Kibneriy 
and  In  Silk  Attire — and  was  even  then  being  talked 
about  as  a  novelist  of  great  promise,  but  of  a  very 
modest  and  retiring  disposition. 

I  remember  Mr.  McCarthy  saying  that  night  that, 
though   he   hoped   he  would  come,   he  should  not  be 


2o6  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

surprised  if  he  did  not  put  in  an  appearance.  Almost 
as  he  spoke  Mr.  Black  walked  into  the  room  followed 
by  his  friend  Charles  Gibbon,  also  said  to  be  a  rising 
novehst.  I  do  not  in  the  least  remember  Mr,  Gibbon, 
but  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  William  Black. 
He  was  not  tall,  but  he  had  a  good-looking  face  and 
very  bright,  kindly  brown  eyes  whose  brilliance  was 
somewhat  marred  by  spectacles.  I  remember  saying 
to  myself,  "  What  a  pity  he  wears  glasses  !  "  I  do 
not  always  think  spectacles  are  a  disfigurement,  and 
one  became  so  used  to  seeing  Mr.  Black  in  them 
that  one  cannot  fancy  he  would  have  looked  better 
without  them,  but  when  I  first  saw  him  I  certainly 
thought  them  a  disfigurement.  It  may  partly  have 
been  because  he  was  so  young  a  man,  for  one  naturally 
feels  sorry  to  see  young  people  wear  anything  that 
is  supposed   to   be   the   prerogative   of  age. 

Mr.  Black  took  a  seat  by  my  side  for  a  few 
moments,  and  I  ventured  to  speak  to  him,  but  he 
seemed  too  nervous  to  look  at  me,  and  he  replied  in 
monosyllables.  I  was  intensely  conscious  of  Mr.  Rice 
watching  me.  Rice  was  at  that  time  editor  and 
proprietor  of  Once  a  tVeek^  in  which  he  was  himself 
running  a  serial  novel  ;  he  was  a  constant  visitor 
at  our  house  and  had  come  round  with  us  to 
Mr.   McCarthy's. 

He  was  a  much  taller  and  bigger  man  than  Mr. 
Black,  and  having  graduated  at  Cambridge  had  by  no 
means  a  modest  opinion  of  himself.     He  came  almost 


J.  S.  Rice  207 

daily  to  our  house,  and  used  to  amuse  and  rather 
astonish  me  by  his  flippant  and  jocular  remarks  on  any 
and  every  subject.  He  was  very  particular  about  his 
dress,  never  without  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole  and 
scent  on  a  large  white  pocket-handkerchief.  He  talked 
very  differently  from  the  authors,  artists,  and  journalists 
I  was  accustomed  to  see  almost  daily  at  my  mother's 
tea-table.  Their  conversation  generally  ran  on  the 
last  new  book  or  picture,  Gladstone's  or  Dizzy's 
speeches,  the  theatre  or  the  Church  ;  but  Mr.  Rice 
talked  of  the  city,  the  money  market,  stocks  and 
shares,  "  bulls"  and  "  bears."  His  jokes  consisted  of 
the  old  stock  speeches  about  mothers-in-law,  which  1 
have  heard  since  ad  nauseam^  but  he  was  very  lucky 
then  in  having  a  listener  to  whom  they  were  quite  new. 
I  had  never  read  Douglas  Jerrold's  book,  so  delightful 
to  men,  entitled  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures,  which 
Mr.  Rice  was  fond  of  quoting.  His  jokes  I  could  not 
always  see,  and  his  catch  phrases  puzzled  me  and  led 
me  into  many  errors. 

From  the  way  he  was  watching  my  endeavours  to 
talk  to  Mr.  Black,  I  knew  he  would  have  something 
to  say,  and  I  was  therefore  not  surprised  when,  Mrs. 
McCarthy  taking  Black  away  to  introduce  to  some  one 
else.   Rice  dropped  into  his  seat. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  think  of  the  great 
novelist  ^  Is  he  your  idea  of  a  hero  }  But  of  course 
not — women  always  want  tall,  fine,  black-haired  men  ; 
now  confess  that  such  an  one  is  your  ideal  .^  " 


2o8  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  I  haven't  thought  anything  about  it,"  I  returned. 

"  Oh,  but  your  favourite  heroes  are  bold,  bad  men." 

This  I  find  is  a  very  common  opinion  amongst  men, 
or  used  to  be  in  those  days,  for  I  have  often  had  the 
same  thing  said  to  me  since.  But  Mr.  Rice  was  the 
first  who  talked  in  this  way  to  me,  so  I  looked  him 
straight  in  the  face  and  prepared  to  show  him  that 
he  was  wrong  in  his  judgment  of  women's  heroes. 

He  hstened  with  a  smile  and  then  he  said,  "  I 
never  saw  any  one  like  you  ;  you  look  a  man  straight 
in  the  face,  and  you  talk  like  a  well-educated  Eton 
boy." 

"  I  have  always  been  taught  that  it  is  polite  to  look 
any  on-^  in  the  face  who  is  speaking  to  me.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  Eton  boys,  but  I  am  glad  I  am 
like  a  well-educated  one,"  1  returned  calmly,  and  with 
what  dignity  I  could  muster. 

Mr.  Rice  laughed.  "  You  are  sharp,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  did  not  mean  to  offend  ;  only  one  does  not  know 
quite  what  to  say — you  are  so  much  in  earnest,  and 
have   none   of   the  little  tricks  of  other  girls." 

"  Little  tricks — what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Mr.  Rice  had  the  grace  to  blush,  but  I,  with  my 
eyes  on  him,  waited  calmly  for  his  answer.  It  came 
falteringly. 

"  I — I  only  mean  that  other  girls  always  look  down 
when  a  man  speaks  to  them." 

"  Why  should  they  ? "  I  asked  in  astonishment,  and 
added  :      "  But    I    suppose    they    have    been    taught  ; 


Rice  on  Women^s  Heroes  209 

no  one  told  me  to  do  so — so  I  shall  do  as  /  was 
taught." 

Mr.  Rice  smiled  as  he  gingerly  peeled  a  peach  for 
me,  saying  as  he  put  it  on  my  plate,  "  I  don't 
think  much  of  this  fruit  ;  mind  it  does  not  make  you 
ill." 

In  those  days  people  were  not  always  talking  of 
their  ailments,  as  is  the  custom  now.  The  people 
I  was  accustomed  to  see  seldom  mentioned  their 
digestions — they  were  all  too  much  interested  in 
politics,  books,  plays  and  pictures,  and  never  fussed 
over  their  health.  Now  and  then  one  came  across 
a  valetudinarian,  but  very  seldom.  But  Mr.  Rice 
was  one  of  the  new  school,  and  was  never  well, 
or  so  he  said  ;  he  was  always  going  to  a  doctor,  or 
under  one  ;  I  considered  him  fussy,  so  when  he 
went  on  to  say,  "  Don't  eat  that  pear — 1  am  sure  it's 
not  ripe  ;  and  the  peach  is  like  a  turnip — it  will  give 
you  indigestion,"  I  replied,  "  Don't  be  alarmed — 
I  haven't  a  digestion,  or  rather  I  am  told  I  can 
digest  horse-shoes  and  tenpenny  nails."  Mr.  Rice 
laughed,  and  told  me  that  in  thirty  years'  time  I 
should  talk  differently,  but  his  prophecy  has  not  yet 
come  true. 

He  was  very  persistent  in  his  questions,  and,  though 
I  thought  he  had  done  with  women's  heroes,  he  re- 
turned to  the  subject. 

"  Now  confess,"  he  said,  "  you  are  disappointed  in 
the  novelist." 

14 


2IO  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  I  am  not  going  to  confess  anything,  and  Mr. 
Black  is  not  the  only  novelist  here,"  I  retorted, 

"  You  need  not  mention  names,"  said  Mr.  Rice, 
"  but  tell  me  what  you  think  of  him." 

"  I  think  he  looks  melancholy  and  unhappy,  but  he 
is  a  widower,"   I  said. 

"  And  to  lose  his  wife  makes  a  man  unhappy,  you 
think,"  said  Rice,  with  a  smile  which  I  did  not  like. 
"  Some  men  are  glad ;  it  gives  them  another  chance — 
they  soon  marry  again,  so  will  your  novelist." 

This  speech  scandalised  me,  and  I  replied  hotly 
that  I  did  not  approve  of  second  marriages,  and  that 
I  knew  several  people  who  did  not.  "  Mr.  Wharton 
Simpson  does  not,  and  won't  allow  Enoch  Arden  to 
be  read  in   his  house." 

Mr   Rice  laughed  aloud. 

"And  you  believe  just  what  people  say! — that 
shows  how  young  you  are." 

"  I  believe  Mr.  Simpson  means  it,"  I  said  emphatic- 
ally. 

"  Ah  !  he  is  just  the  man  who  will  marry  again  if  he 
is  left  a  widower,  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  his 
daughter  is  a  second  wife — you  wait  and  see." 

A  few  years  after,  this  conversation  was  recalled  to 
my  mind,  when  Miss  Simpson  married  Mr.  William 
Black,  and  a  little  later  her  father  married  a  second 
time.  But  at  the  time  I  was  sure  Mr.  Rice  would  be 
wrong,  and  I  stuck  to  my  point  and  quoted  Mr. 
Simpson  on   the  subject,  for  it  was  one   he  was  rather 


William  Black  211 

fond  of,  and  I  remembered  a  great  argument  between 
him,  my  father,  and  some  other  friends  at  the  time  that 
Tennyson's  poem  came  out. 

Mr.  Rice  tumbled  all  my  ideals  to  the  ground, 
and  I  was  glad  when  Mrs.  McCarthy  came  up  and 
carried  me  off  to  talk  to  Mr.  Barry,  for  Rice  and 
I   nearly  always  came  to  the  verge  of  a  wrangle. 

Mr,  Barry  was,  though  1  did  not  know  it  at  the 
time,  a  great  friend  of  William  Black's,  and  we  talked 
about  his  novels  Kibneny  and  In  Silk  Attire.  The 
first  I  had  not  read,  but  Barry  praised  them  both 
enthusiastically. 

Decidedly  the  most  pathetic  and  sympathetic  touch 
in  Sir  Wemyss  Reid's  Life  of  William  Black  is  in 
the  chapter  where  he  describes  the  novelist  going 
to  visit  Barry  at  his  lodgings  in  Brixton  :  "  A  frock- 
coated  figure,  more  suited  to  Piccadilly  on  a  summer 
afternoon  than  to  the  unfashionable  suburb,"  and 
always  carrying  with  him  some  gift  for  the  dying 
man  ;  "  a  hare  dangling  in  dangerous  proximity  to 
the  smartly  cut  coat,  or  a  basin  of  soup  or  jelly, 
which  seemed  somehow  or  other  to  harmonise  still 
less  than  the  hare  did." 

Sir  Wemyss  Reid  goes  on  to  say  that  "  the  world 
never  saw  this  side  of  Black's  character  "  ;  still  less 
did  the  men  who,  envious  of  his  fame  and  fortune, 
"  sneered  at  him  as  a  dandy,  and  charged  him  with 
being  absorbed  in  his  own  ends,  imagine  that  he 
was  earning  by  the  work  of  his  own  pen  the   money 


212  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

which  kept  his  friend  in  comfort  during  the  last  sad 
days    of  his    short    hfe.       This    was    the    real    Black, 
however,  the  Black  who  was  never  visible  to  writers 
of  personal  sketches  in  the  newspapers,  or  the  casual 
acquaintances   who  saw  in   him   only  the  literary  lion 
of  the  season."     No  man,  I  think,  could  have  greater 
praise  than  this,  and  one  can   quite  imagine  how   his 
dying    friend    would    look    at    him    with    eyes  full  of 
tenderness    and    love.       And    to    another    friend,    the 
Charles  Gibbon    I    have    mentioned,    he   was  just    as 
good ;  for  during  the  severe  illness  of  this  gentleman, 
who  had  undertaken  to  complete  a  novel  by  a  certain 
date,   Mr.  Black  came  to  his    relief,  and,  questioning 
him  about  the  plot  and  the  characters,  "  set  to  work 
and    finished    Gibbon's    story    before    he    put    pen    to 
paper  on   his  own  account."     It  is   true    that  at  this 
time    Black    was    at    the    height    of  his   career  as  the 
most    popular    novelist    of  the    day,    and  was  able  to 
command    his    own   terms    from  the   publishers  ;    but 
even    under  these   circumstances   it  is  not  every  man 
who  would  be  so  unselfish    and    generous,    and    it   is 
only    the    man    who    has    to    earn    his    living    by    his 
pen    who    can     fully    appreciate    the     magnitude    and 
generosity  of  such  a  service  as  that  which  he  under- 
took for  Gibbon  and  Barry.     But   Sir  Wemyss  Reid 
tells   us   that  there  were  "  few  men  who  had   secured 
a    more    lasting    hold     upon    Black's    affections    than 
Barry,"    and    this    was    proved    by    his    making    him 
the  hero  of  that  charming  novel  Shandon   Bells. 


Mr.  Richard  Whiteing  213 

Amongst  the  company  that  night  was  Mr.  Richard 
Whiteing,  who  has  since  become  so  well  known 
through  his  popular  novels  The  Island^  No.  5  John 
Street.,  and  The  Yellow  Van.  1  had  no  conversation 
with  him  that  evening,  but  I  overheard  him  say  to  my 
mother,  in  a  rather  slow  and  solemn  voice  : 

"Which  would  you  rather  be,  beautiful  or  clever  ?  " 

My  mother's  answer  was  characteristic  :  "  That 
requires  consideration." 

Mr.  Rice,  who  was  again  at  my  side,  said,  "  Which 
would  you  be  }'' 

And  I  answered  quickly,  "  Oh,  clever,  of  course. 
What  a  silly  question  !  " 

Whereupon  Mr.  Rice  laughed  in  his  quizzical  manner. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  met  Mr,  Whiteing. 
He  was  known  in  those  days  among  journalists 
and  literary  people  as  "  The  Costermonger,"  (for 
he  had  made  a  name  by  writing  articles  on  the 
poor  and  signing  them  "The  Costermonger "),  just 
as  James  Greenwood  was  known  as  "  The  Amateur 
Casual."  My  father,  who  was  always  looking  about 
to  ask  some  one  home,  especially  at  Christmas  time, 
came  in  one  day  and  announced  : 

"  I  have  just  met  '  The  Costermonger,'  and  asked 
him  to  dine  with  us  on  Christmas  Day." 

My  mother  said  nothing,  but  I,  who  was  rather 
tired  of  visitors,  and  knew  my  brothers  were,  for  we 
liked  to  be  by  ourselves  sometimes,  and  at  Christmas 
especially,  broke  in  with  ; 


214  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  Oh  !     I  am  sorry." 

My  father  raised  his  eyebrows  questioningly. 

",We  never  seem  to  be  by  ourselves  at  Christmas  ; 
we  always  seem  to  collect  the  halt,  and  the  blind,  and 
the  lame " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  my  father,  in  a 
surprised  tone  ;  "  Mr.  Whiteing  is  neither  halt, 
blind,  nor  lame  ;  and  you  surely  know  he  is  not  a 
costermonger  .''  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  he  is  only  a  clever  man  pretending  ; 
it  would  be  more  fun  if  he  were  real." 

My  father  tapped  the  fingers  of  one  hand  on  the 
knuckles  of  the  other  ;  he  was  half  amused  and 
half  annoyed  ;  he  said  quite  gently,  but  with 
emphasis  : 

"  Mr.  Whiteing  is  very  clever,  and  quite  young  ; 
he  is  alone  in  London,  and  that  is  why  I  have  asked 
him  to  dine  with  us." 

"  I  knew  there  was  something  the  matter  with  him," 
I  grumbled  ;  "  he  is  sure  to  be  melancholy,  thinking  of 
his  home  and  friends." 

"  So  you  grudge  him  a  dinner  on  the  day  when  we 
ought  to  feel  kind  and  generous  to  all — 1  am  ashamed 
of  you  !  " 

My  father  did  not  often  speak  severely  to  me,  and 
I  accordingly  felt  very  much  ashamed  of  myself, 
especially  when  he  continued  : 

"  What  we  have  to  do  is  to  make  others  happy  ; 
and  if  you  think  Mr.  Whiteing  will  be    melancholy, 


One  Christmas  Day  215 

then  do  the  best  you  can  to  entertain  him.  Now 
mind,  I  shall  expect  you  to  do  so." 

I  wished  I  had  not  spoken,  and  it  was  with  no  little 
trepidation  that  I  awaited  the  coming  of  Mr.  Whiteing 
on  that  Christmas  Day.  How  I  hoped  he  would  be 
gay  and  cheerful  ;  full  of  talk,  and  even  of  tricks 
like  young  Mr.  Creswick  ;  but  I  did  not  see  how 
he  could  be  when  he  was  so  much  amongst  the  poor 
and  saw  so  much  misery.  Far  from  grudging  him 
his  dinner,  I  hoped  he  would  eat  a  good  one,  and  not 
blame  us  if  we  did  the  same  ;  but  I  feared  he  would 
be  thinking  too  much  of  those  who  had  none,  to 
enjoy  himself,  or  to  let  us  enjoy  ourselves.  In  those 
days  I  imagined  philanthropists  and  reformers  would 
expect  one  to  give  up  everything  to  the  poor.  I 
think  now  it  was  rather  hard  on  us  youngsters  to 
always  have  so  many  clever  and  brilliant  people 
round  us  ;  we  always  seemed  to  be  kept  at 
attention. 

Mr.  Whiteing  came.  I  can  see  him  now  as  he  was 
in  those  days — a  tall,  dark-haired,  rather  melancholy- 
looking  man,  with  a  very  white  face.  I  can  recall 
him  sitting  in  a  low  chair,  which  had  a  very  uncom- 
fortable back,  which  squeezed  one's  shoulders  together  ; 
the  chair  was  so  low  he  had  to  stretch  out  his  long 
legs,  and  he  looked  most  uncomfortable.  By  way  of 
making  myself  agreeable  I  had  a  mind  to  offer  him 
another  chair,  but,  vividly  recalling  the  snub  I  had 
received  from  the  Rev.  J.  M.  Bellew  only  a  few  short 


2i6  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

weeks  before,   I   thought  discretion   the  better  part  of 
valour. 

I  do  not  remember  how  the  dinner  went  off,  but  1 
have  no  doubt  successfully,  for  my  father  was  a  host 
in  himself,  and  so  full  of  spirits  and  anecdotes  that  I 
feel  sure  our  guest  enjoyed  himself ;  at  all  events,  it 
must  have  been  less  melancholy  than  dining  alone  in 
lodgings,  or  at  a  restaurant. 

Home  life  was  everything  in  an  Englishman's  eyes 
then.  Restaurants  were  few,  and  not  the  gorgeous 
places  they  are  now,  nor  were  there  half  the  amusements 
we  have  now ;  so  a  young  man  alone  in  London 
in  those  days  would  not  find  himself  so  well  off" 
for  entertainment  as  in  these.  We  had  not  become 
continental  in  our  habits  ;  Christmas  was  still  a  high 
festival,  and  Dickens  had  made  Christmas  at  home  an 
institution. 

The  next  day  but  one  was  the  Censor  Dinner, 
and  at  that  Mr.  Whiteing  again  appeared,  and  was 
very  much  in  his  element,  carrying  round  large  baskets 
of  bread,  and  talking  to  Tommy,  Bobby,  Sarah,  and 
Jenny  in  quite  a  fatherly  manner. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

SIR  THOMAS  AND  LADY  DUFFUS  HARDY — IZA  DUFFUS  HARDY — YOUTH- 
FUL SCULPTORS — BLOWING  BUBBLES— OUT  ON  THE  ROOF — GENERAL 
LOWE. 

ONE  of  the  most  popular  of  literary  women  and 
hostesses  at  this  time  was  Mrs.  DufFus  Hardy. 
No  one  amongst  the  literary  and  artistic  circle  gave 
or  received  more  invitations  than  this  lady.  She  used 
often  to  come  to  our  house  to  consult  my  father 
about  a  novel  he  had  placed  for  her  in  the  hands  of 
Messrs.  Sampson  Low  &  Co.  It  was,  I  think, 
her  first  novel,  and  had  a  very  good  plot,  and  by  my 
father's  suggestion  it  was  called  A  Casual  Acquaintance. 

Lord  Romilly  was  then  Master  of  the  Rolls  Court, 
and  Mr.  DufFus  Hardy,  afterwards  Sir  Thomas  DufFus 
Hardy,  was  Assistant  Keeper  of  the  Records,  and  one 
of  Her  Majesty's  Commissioners  on  historical  manu- 
scripts. We  had  been  intimate  with  them  for  some 
few  years  before  Mr.  DufFus  Hardy  was  knighted, 
but  to  save  confusion  I  shall  now  call  them  Sir  Thomas 
and  Lady  DufFus  Hardy. 

Sir  Thomas  was  a  tall,  aristocratic  old  gentleman, 
with  gentle  and  grave  manners  ;  he  had  been  married 

217 


21 8  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

twice,  and  was  a  good  many  years  older  than  his  second 
wife.  Lady  Duffus  Hardy  was  very  good-looking, 
and  rather  stout  ;  she  seemed  to  me  the  incarnation 
of  good-nature,  fun,  and  joviality.  They  lived  in 
a  pretty,  secluded  house  near  Regent's  Park,  and  used 
to  give  charming  little  dinners,  to  which  my  father 
and  mother  were  invited,  while  1  often  went  to  spend 
the  day  with  their  only  daughter  Iza,  now  a  well- 
known   novelist. 

Miss  Duffus  Hardy's  ambition  was  evidently  in 
those  days  to  become  a  sculptor.  I  well  remember 
the  first  time  I  saw  her — a  tall,  pale-faced  girl,  with 
large,  beautiful  brown  eyes,  with  a  serious  expression 
that  made  me  think  of  a  picture  1  had  seen  of  the 
Madonna.  She  was  a  little  older  than  myself,  and 
at  that  time  very  much  taller,  and  she  had  on  a 
long  blue  overall.  As  soon  as  the  maid  who  had 
brought  me  left,  Iza  hurried  me  upstairs  to  take  off 
my  hat,  when  she  proceeded  to  invest  me  in  an  overall 
like  her  own,  and  carried  me  off  into  the  garden, 
which  1  remember  was  exceedingly  pretty,  and  I 
thought  quite  like  the  country,  as  it  ran  down  to 
the  Regent's  Canal.  It  had  some  fine  old  trees  in 
it  and  a  terrace  overlooking  the  canal.  There  was 
also  a  good-sized  greenhouse,  which  seemed  to  contain 
a  great  many  garden  tools  and  chairs,  but  few  flowers. 
1  believe  it  was  used  as  a  wet  weather  play-room  for 
Iza.  We  certainly  spent  many  happy  hours  in  it, 
and    made    ourselves    "  beautiful    objects,"    as    Lady 


A  Favourite  Pastime  219 

Hardy  used  laughingly  to  say.  We  used  to  get 
some  common  or  garden  clay,  and,  to  quote  Artemus 
Ward,  try  our  hands  at  "  sculping,"  I  am  bound 
to  admit  that  we  made  a  frightful  mess,  but  after  all 
we  were  only  anticipating  the  "Kindergarten  System" 
which  was  already  being  tried  in  Germany,  though 
of  course  we  knew  nothing  of  that. 

Our  arduous  labours  at  modelling  were  varied  by 
walks  in  the  park,  accompanied  by  one  of  the  servants, 
or  to  the  Zoological  Gardens,  where  we  gazed  at  the 
animals  we  had  been  vainly  trying  to  reproduce,  for 
we  had  a  fine  ambition.  Like  all  great  geniuses,  we 
had  our  moments  of  depression,  when  in  our  despair 
we  solaced  ourselves  with  a  pipe — I  may  say  many 
pipes.  I  can  imagine  the  reader's  astonishment  at  the 
thought  of  girls  indulging  in  pipes  in  those  days, 
when  even  Lordly  Man  was  not  allowed  to  smoke 
at  the  early  age  he  is  now  ;  but  then  cigarettes  were 
not  so  common.  Our  favourite  pipes  were  long 
churchwardens  ;  I  am  afraid  to  say  how  many  the 
maid  bought  us  at  a  time,  or  how  much  of  our  pocket 
money  we  spent  on  those  luxuries.  It  was  lucky  for 
us  that  they  were  as  cheap  as  they  were  fragile,  for  we 
often  broke  three  or  four  at  a  sitting,  and  the  soap 
we  consumed  in  making  a  lather  for  our  bubbles  Lady 
Hardy  declared  would  ruin  her.  This  favourite  pas- 
time of  ours  came  to  a  sudden  end,  and  it  happened 
in  this  way. 

Lady  Hardy  was  fond  of  sending  for  us  to  appear 


220  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

in  the  drawing-room  when  she  had  visitors.  One 
day,  as  we  were  in  the  throes  of  modelling,  a  summons 
came,  and  we,  hastily  washing  our  hands,  and  quite 
forgetting  our  pinafores,  appeared  before  a  distinguished 
visitor  (I  believe  it  was  Lord  Romilly  himself)  in  clay- 
covered  overalls  and  besmudged  faces.  The  gentleman 
tried  not  to  laugh,  and  Lady  Hardy,  who  was  very 
good-natured,  dismissed  us  with  a  smile  and  the 
caution  to  "  look  in  the  glass  another  time."  But 
we  were  both  very  much  chagrined  and  ashamed, 
though,  as  Miss  Hardy  indignantly  and  sagely  remarked, 
"  Visitors  are  a  nuisance  when  people  are  busy  ;  and 
how  is  any  one  to  remember  to  look  in  a  glass 
when   she  is  making  statues  and   feels    in  a  hurry." 

The  next  time  I  went  to  see  Iza  she  informed 
me  ruefully  that  "  we  must  not  do  any  modelling,  as 
we  were  expected  to  take  tea  in  the  drawing-room." 
This  was  such  an  appalling  announcement  that  I 
suggested  our  hiding.  Iza  was  quite  willing,  but 
where  to  hide  was  the  difficulty.  We  were  not 
allowed  out  alone,  and  any  room  in  the  house  could 
easily  be  searched,  so  1  suggested  the  roof.  In  our 
house  in  Great  Russell  Street  there  was  a  flat  roof,  and 
I  and  my  brothers  were  accustomed  to  go  out  there 
at  any  and  every  time.  We  used  to  get  up  in  the 
night  and  mount  the  roof  to  see  fires.  When  Day 
&  Martin's  blacking  factory,  which  was  then  in 
Holborn,  was  burnt  down  it  was  a  fine  sight  from  that 
roof,   also   a  fire   at   the   British   Museum,   the  heat  of 


Out  on  the  Roof  221 

which  almost  scorched  us  as  we  stood  on  the  roof 
of  74,  Great  Russell  Street.  But  to  go  up  an  easy- 
staircase  and  step  out  upon  some  leads  was  a  very 
different  thing  from  mounting  a  step-ladder  placed 
against  a  trap-door  in  the  ceiling,  and  partly  over  a 
staircase,  which  was  the  way  to  the  roof  of  Sir  Thomas 
Hardy's  house.  But  we  accomplished  it,  taking  with 
us  our  pipes  and  Sir  Thomas's  shaving  soap,  in  its 
pretty  china  bowl,  and  some  hot  water  which  had 
been  left    for    us  to    wash    our   hands. 

The  roof  was  not  nearly  so  nice  as  ours,  and  so  I 
told  Iza  ;  it  was  a  steep  slope,  but  we  managed  to 
creep  up  the  slates  and  sit  on  the  ridge  with  our 
backs  against  the  chimney  stack.  It  was  rather  cold 
and  windy,  but — the  shaving  soap  was  Pears',  and  it 
made  most  excellent  bubbles,  nor  were  we  discovered 
till  long  after  the  visitors  had  gone,  and  some  one  had 
come  to  take  me  home.  The  house  had  been  searched, 
and  one  of  the  servants  had  gone  into  the  park,  when 
a  housemaid,  coming  upstairs,  fancied  she  heard  voices 
and  laughter,  and,  mounting  the  step-ladder,  discovered 
us.  I  shall  never  forget  her  face  as  it  appeared 
through  the  open  trap  ;  her  consternation  and  fright 
were  extreme,  nor  did  she  know  how  to  get  us  down. 
"Oh,  Miss  Iza,  how  could  you?"  she  said  reproach- 
fully, but  Iza  invited  her  cheerfully  to  come  and  join 
us,  and  I  assured  her  that  "  if  you  sat  with  one  leg 
up,  as  if  you  were  on  horseback,  it  was  very  safe  and 
comfortable  "  ;  but  she  only  implored  us  to  come  down. 


222  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

The  difficulty  and  danger  were  great  ;  getting  up  had  not 
been  easy,  but  it  was  as  nothing  to  getting  down.  1 
shall  never  forget  sliding  down  those  slates  and  getting 
through  the  trap  backwards.  But  we  managed  it 
safely — only  Sir  Thomas's  handsome  china  shaving 
bowl,  a  present  from  his  wife,  was  smashed  in  the 
descent  ;  it  fell  through  one  of  the  spaces  in  the  step- 
ladder,  down  upon  the  stairs  with  a  great  crash, 
and  was  past  mending — as  we  should  have  been  had 
we  slipped.  After  this  adventure,  bubble-blowing 
lost  its  charm  for  us. 

At  Lady  Hardy's  At  Homes  I  met  many  notable 
people,  but  my  great  favourite  in  those  days  was 
General  Lowe,  one  of  the  survivors  of  the  celebrated 
Six  Hundred. 

I  remember  the  first  night  I  saw  him  he  was  sitting 
quite  alone  looking  rather  soberly  at  a  group  of 
chattering  young  people  that  I  sat  near.  The  con- 
versation was  not  very  edifying  ;  a  journalist  was 
sneering  at  Christianity,  and  some  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
young  women  were  posing  in  their  usual  limp  and 
die-away  manner,  while  Miss  Hardy  and  I  looked  on 
with  great  interest,  not  unmixed  with  admiring 
wonder.  Suddenly  my  father  came  across  the  room 
and  carried  me  off  and  introduced  me  to  General 
Lowe,  asking  him  to  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me 
something  about  that  celebrated  charge,  that  I  was 
so  fond  of  reading  in  Tennyson.  The  General's  face 
lighted   up,    he    seemed   quite   pleased   at  the   request. 


One  of  the  Light  Brigade  223 

and  I  seated  myself  in  a  low  chair  close  to  his  knees 
and  listened  ;  I  remember  saying  to  him  that  '*  people 
thought  Lord  Cardigan  was  in  fault."  From  what  I 
remember,  that  was  not  his  opinion  ;  ''  He  only  obeyed 
orders,"  he  said. 

"  But  should  he  have  obeyed  such  an  order  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  It  is  a  soldier's  first  duty  to  obey,"  he  replied 
proudly. 

He  told  me  too  that  in  the  press  and  excitement 
of  battle  soldiers  do  not  realise  their  great  danger. 
After  that  night  General  Lowe  and  I  were  great 
cronies,  and  he  often  spoke  of  me  as  "  my  little  girl," 
though  I  was  by  no  means  little  then  ;  and  I  used 
to  please  him  by  quoting  softly  to  him  verses  of  "  The 
Light  Brigade,"  especially  this  one  : 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made, 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 
Noble  Six  Hundred. 

And  I  used  to  bow  to  him,  for,  as  I  told  him,  he 
represented  all  those  brave  men  to  me. 

If  I  could  only  draw  some  of  these  people  !  As 
I  write  I  can  recall  even  their  tones  of  voice  and  their 
expressions,  and  I  long  to  make  pictures  of  them — but  I 
cannot  draw,  even  in  the  crudest  way  ;  and  if  I  could, 
I  should  never  be  able  to  reproduce  the  kindly,  almost 


2  24  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

tender,  expression  in  the  faces  of  those  great  men 
who  talked  to  me.  The  flash  of  pleasure  and  kindness 
that  used  to  come  into  General  Lowe's  somewhat 
sombre  and  decidedly  stern  countenance  when  he  saw 
me,  and  the  smiling  way  he  would  listen  to  my 
opinions,  often  made  me  wonder,  and  I  began  to 
congratulate  myself  that  I  could  not  be  so  stupid  as 
the  Philosopher  said  I  was,  and  I,  in  consequence, 
thought  myself. 

1  have  heard  some  people  talk  of  the  smug  satis- 
faction depicted  on  the  faces  and  in  the  manners  of 
celebrities  ;  but  from  Gladstone  downwards — or  should 
I  say  upwards  ? — I  have  never  seen  it.  It  must  be 
the  people  who  fancy  themselves  great  who  put  on 
what   we   should   now  call   "  side." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  bright  and  charming 
than  Charles  Dickens's  expression  as  he  smiled  at  me 
when  my  father  told  him  how  much  I  liked  The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop,  and  how  I  wished  to  be  like  Little 
Nell  ;  nor  Tennyson's  when  he  shook  my  hand  and 
said   "  I    am   sure   you   are   proud   of  your   father." 


CHAPTER    XIX 

NICK-NAMES — "MARIE  ANTOINETTE" — "A  MODERN  ANTIQUE" — A 
DANCE  AT  LADY  HARDY's — CURIOUS  PARTNERS — LORD  ROMILLY's 
SON — LOUIS  BLANC — I  DANCE  WITH  LOUIS  BLANC — LOUIS  BLANC 
AND  "  MARIE  ANTOINETTE  '' — GENERAL  LOWE. 

I  WAS  continually  having  nick-names  given  me. 
It  was,  I  think,  a  mark  of  favour,  but  one  I  did 
not  always  appreciate.  For  instance,  when  a  gentleman, 
a  young  man,  but  a  very  old  and  intimate  friend,  who 
had  known  me  from  my  infancy,  took  to  calling  me 
"  Shalott,"  I  naturally  wondered.  I  guessed  he  meant 
"  the  Lady  of  Shalott,"  for  he  was  a  decidedly  dignified 
little  man,  and  would  not  be  guilty  of  a  joke,  especi- 
ally one  that  could  hurt  in  any  way  the  feelings  of 
"a  member  of  the  fair  sex,"  as  he  would  say.  He 
was  always  very  kind  to  me,  bringing  me  boxes  of 
bonbons,  gloves,  chocolates,  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and 
many  more  valuable  presents.  I  am  afraid  I  did  not 
always  receive  these  attentions  very  graciously  ;  I 
know  when  he  presented  the  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
in  a  highly  ornamental  box,  I  horrified  my  mother 
by  exclaiming  : 

"  I  hope  they  are  hemmed." 

225  15 


226  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

This  was  not  a  joke  on  my  part,  nor  was  I  trying 
to  be  sharp  or  witty,  for  that  kind  of  speech  would  not 
have  been  thought  funny  in  those  days — rudeness  was 
not  taken  for  wit.  It  was  pure  consternation  on  my 
part,  for  1  hated  hemming  pocket-handkerchiefs  ;  I 
had  many  and  many  a  time  made  the  first  finger  of  my 
left  hand  sore  and  stiff  with  such  work,  while  the  hem 
of  the  handkerchief  was  ornamented  with  little  specks 
of  blood.  Sewing  machines  were  only  just  coming  into 
fashion  ;  we  had  none,  for  my  mother,  who  was  a 
fine  needlewoman,  and  in  her  girlhood  had  made  her 
father  a  shirt,  looked  askance  at  such  innovations. 
But  she  was  quite  horrified  at  my  unlucky  speech,  and 
I  had  to  apologise. 

"  That's     all     right — never     mind,     Shalott,"     said 

Mr.  .     "  Don't  say    anything  more    about  it.      I 

remembered  that  finger  pricked  to  the  bone,  and  had 
them  stitched." 

I  thanked  him,  and  made  no  further  remark  then  ; 
but  on  another  occasion  I  asked  him  why  he  had  taken 
to  calling  me  "  Shalott,"  at  the  same  time  reminding 
him  that  I  was  not  inordinately  fond  of  onions.  He 
pretended  to  be  horrified  at  my  suggestion  that  he 
should  think  such  a  thing. 

"  You  know  it  isn't  that,"  he  said  seriously.  "  It 
is  your  dignified  and  silent  manner,  and  your  admira- 
tion for  Tennyson's  poems.  Do  believe  me,  I  never 
even  thought  of  onions — of  course  I  mean  '  the 
Lady  of  Shalott.'  " 


Nick-Names  227 

Thus  I  got  rid  of  that  nick-name,  but  he  then  took 
to  "  Marianna  "  (he  was  very  literary  in  his  tastes),  and 
again  I  had  to  remonstrate  with  him,  I  assured  him 
that  it  was  absurd,  that  a  substantial,  cheerful  house 
in  the  heart  of  London  was  not  like  a  '*  moated 
Grange "  ;  and  therefore  the  name  was  ridiculous. 
He  replied  that  I  was  "  remote  "  ;  I  thought  he  meant 
this  for  a  pun.  He  assured  me  it  was  not  so,  but  that 
he  meant  it  as  a  fact — that  I  had  an  aloof  and  remote 
manner,  and  he  ended  by  saying  : 

*'  If  you  won't  be  called  '  Shalott  '  or  '  Marianna,' 
I  shall  call  you  '  Antoinette,'  for  you  are  like  Marie 
Antoinette — every  one  says  so." 

"  I  can't  bear  being  thought  like  her,"  I  retorted  ; 
but  it  was  useless. 

The  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton,  Mr.  Rice,  Mr.  Creswick 
the  actor — every  one,  in  fact — declared  I  was  like 
Marie  Antoinette  ;  and  to  make  matters  worse,  as  I 
was  one  day  in  Oxford  Street,  with  my  governess,  two 
people  stopped  as  we  were  crossing  the  road — they 
were  an  old  gentleman  and,  I   should  think,  his  wife. 

"  There  ! — there's  the  girl  I  told  you  of.  Is  she 
not  like  Marie  Antoinette  }  "  remarked  the  old  man. 

"  Like  her  ! — she  is  Marie  Antoinette — it  is  a  case 
of  reincarnation,"  returned  his  companion. 

She  spoke  so  solemnly  that  I  was  positively  scared, 
and  stood  staring  at  her.  My  governess  hurried  me 
on,  and  when  we  were  some  yards  away  she  turned  to 
me  with  a  smile,  and  the  remark  : 


22  8  In   the  Sixties   and  Seventies 

"  There — now  will  you  believe  you  are  like  Marie 
Antoinette  ? " 

"  I  am  not,"  I  replied  stoutly.  "  But  tell  me  what 
that  lady  means  by  reincarnation," 

I  had  an  idea  of  what  it  meant,  still  1  hoped  I  was 
wrong  ;  but  after  my  governess's  explanation,  my  heart 
sank.  Was  it  possible  that  I  had  lived  before,  and 
really  been  that  unhappy  woman  ?  I  fought  against 
the  idea,  but  I  was  very  imaginative,  and  it  haunted 
me.       1    remember    I    argued    the    matter   with    Miss 

W as  well  as  I  was  able  ;  still,  I  was  no  match 

for  her,  and,  whether  she  did  it  to  tease  me,  or  really 
believed  in  the  theory,  she  certainly  led  me  to  think 
that  she  believed  it.  In  spite  of  all  I  could  say,  she 
declared  that  I  must  have  been  the  French  Queen, 
from  my  extraordinary  likeness.  I  argued  that  it 
was  merely  the  way  I  did  my  hair,  something  in  the 
shape  of  my  face,  and  a  great  deal  people's  fancy. 
This  theory  she  would  not  admit,  though  she  must 
have  known  it  was  the  true  solution.  Then  I  main- 
tained that  if  I  was  like  the  French  Queen,  it  was  a 
proof  that  my  soul  was  not  hers,  "  for  the  Almighty 
would  this  time  have  put  her  soul  into  quite  a  different 
body."  Our  usual  promenade  was  up  to  Regent 
Circus  and  back,  for  I  could  not  walk  far.  The  dis- 
cussion lasted  all  the  way  back,  and  I  remember  as 
we  reached  our  own  door  I  ended  with  : 

'*WeIl,  if  I   am   Marie   Antoinette,    I   shall   not  be 
so  stupid  as  to  say  now,  when  I  am  told  people   have 


**Thc  Modern  Antique*'  229 

no  bread,  '  Then  why  don't  they  eat  buns  ? '  But 
I  don't  believe  she  did  say  it — it's  a  make-up  of  the 
historians  ;  and  as  it  seems  I  can't  call  my  soul  my 
own,   I  shall  name  myself  '  the  modern  antique.'  " 

Miss    W went    into   a  fit   of  laughter,   which 

she  vainly  tried  to  stifle  as  the  door  opened. 

As  might  be  expected,  I  naturally  began  to  think 
a  good  deal  about  the  French  Queen  ;  and  as  I  was 
at  that  time  reading,  in  French,  Clery's  Journal  des 
Dernieres  Heures  de  Louis  XV I. ^  she  was  still  more 
impressed  upon  me.  I  had  thought  her  a  vain  and 
foolish  woman,  but  my  opinions  began  to  change, 
and  I  saw  that  she  and  her  husband  were  not  so  bad 
as  their  predecessors,  but  were  victims  suffering  for 
the  sins  of  their  ancestors,  more  than  for  their  own. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  spring  of  that  same  year 
that  I  went  to  a  dance  at  Lady  Hardy's.  It  was  a 
memorable  evening,  and  I  had  looked  forward  to  it 
for  some  time  ;  but  owing  to  the  Philosopher's  pessi- 
mistic way  of  looking  at  dances,  the  bore  he  found 
them,  the  melancholy  things  he  said  about  them,  and 
my  own  conviction  that  the  late  hours  and  excitement 
were  not  good  for  me — to  say  nothing  of  the  lassitude 
and  pain  I  endured  afterwards — when  the  day  came 
round  I  was  in  a  very  unhappy  frame  of  mind  and 
declared  I  could  not  go.  But  a  dress  had  been  made 
for  the  occasion — a  gorgeous  dress  of  white  silk,  trimmed 
with  blue,  and  long  too,  my  first  long  dress  ;  yet  if 
it   had   not   been    for    my    aunt's    encouragement   and 


230  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

persuasion   I   should   have  stayed   at   home    and   never 
even  seen  Louis  Blanc. 

I  can  so  well  remember  that  evening — how  my 
mother  and  my  aunt  hovered  about  me,  helping  me 
to  dress — in  my  grandmother's  room  too,  for  mine, 
which  led  out  of  it,  was  not  nearly  big  enough  for 
such  a  grand  occasion.  I  remember  my  aunt's  com- 
ments on  the  perfect  fit  of  the  dress  ;  she  said,  "  It 
looked  as  if  I  had  been  melted  and  poured  in,"  and 
then,  when  I  laughed  and  exclaimed  "  What  a  good 
idea  !  "  she  promptly  told  me  "  it  was  a  very  vulgar 
saying,  and  that   I   was   not   to   repeat  it." 

My  father,  my  governess,  and  the  servants  all 
admired  me  in  my  pretty  dress.  Every  one  but  the 
Philosopher  had  something  pleasant  to  say — he  alone 
was  gloomy  and  cross.  He  was  the  fly  in  my 
ointment,  the  skeleton  at  the  feast.  His  thoughts 
were  then,  as  always,  bent  on  science,  and  to  that 
he  had  added  volunteering.  "  Caper  about  in  a 
heated  room  like  an  idiot  he  would  not — it  was  not 
manly,  and  to  see  others  doing  so  was  not  amusing. 
As  to  girls,  they  were  a  nuisance."  But  in  spite  of 
his  grumbles  he  had  to  take  me,  and  so  disagreeable 
was  he  on  the  way  that  I  cried  ;  whereupon  he  said  : 

"  Now   make   your   eyes  red,  and  arrive  looking   a 
sight !  " 

His    tone  was  so  vindictively  savage  that    I    could 
not  help  laughing,  whereupon   he  exclaimed  : 

"  Now  go  into  hysterics  !  " 


A  Dance  at  Lady  Hardy *s  231 

I  stopped  and  let  him  growl  on,  taking  no  notice, 
which  was  the  only  thing  to  do. 

The  room  was  full  when  we  arrived,  but  after  we 
had  shaken  hands  with  Sir  Thomas  and  Lady  Hardy, 
and  Iza  had  nodded  to  me  from  her  place  in  the 
first  quadrille,  I  found  General  Lowe  at  my  side, 
bowing  and  smiling,  and  declaring  he  was  lost  in 
admiration  and  hardly  knew  "  his  little  girl,"  "  If 
you  can't  manage  that  train,  come  to  me  and  I'll 
be  your  train-bearer,"  he  whispered  as  I  was  carried 
off  to  join  in  the  lancers.  "  That  train "  was  only 
about  two  inches  on  the  ground,  yet  as  I  danced 
I  would  have  given  anything  for  my  short  petticoats. 

My  first  partner  was  a  melancholy  young  man  who 
had  been  disappointed  in  love,  or  so  he  said,  and  he 
came  up  to  me  at  intervals  during  the  evening  and 
insisted  on  telling  me  his  miseries.  I  comforted  him 
as  well  as  I  could.  Never  having  then  suffered  from 
the  complaint,  it  was  wonderful  what  sage  advice  I 
gave  him.  I  danced  all  the  square  dances  ;  but  as 
the  round  ones  were  forbidden  by  Dr.  Richardson's 
orders,  I  had  a  great  deal  of  sitting  out.  In  the 
middle  of  the  next  set  of  lancers  my  partner  horrified 
me  by  saying  : 

"  It  is  curious  to  find  oneself  dancing  in  the  same 
set  of  quadrilles  with  three  people  who  resemble 
respectively  Christ,  Shakespeare,  and  Marie  Antoinette." 

I  stared.  "  Christ  !  "  I  said.  "  You  mean  Mr. 
Joseph  Knight,   I   suppose  .?  " 


232  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  Yes  ;  don't  say  you  cannot  see  the  likeness," 

"  He  is  like  a  print  I  have  seen  of  a  picture  by 
a  Frenchman.  I  have  forgotten  his  name.  But  I 
do  not  care  for  it,  I  do  not  think  it  can  have  been 
like  Christ  ;  still,  I  wish  you  had  not  reminded  me 
of  it." 

"  Why  not  ^  "  he  said,  "  you  should  be  pleased  "  ; 
but  here  the  exigences  of  the  grand  chain  cut  him 
short,  and  the  dance  being  over  I  avoided  that  young 
man  and  Mr.  Joseph  Knight  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

As  to  the  gentleman  who  thought  himself  like 
Shakespeare,  I  considered  him  a  mere  caricature.  He 
had  sloping  shoulders,  a  bald  head,  and  long,  thin 
hair.  I  do  not  remember  his  name,  but  he  was  a 
literary  man  of  no  mean  ability,  though  not  a  well- 
known  novelist. 

During  the  round  dances  I  ensconced  myself  on 
a  comfortable  seat  just  inside  the  smaller  drawing- 
room,  whence  I  could  watch  the  dancing  in  each 
room.  There  the  son  of  Lord  Romilly  found  me, 
and  asked  me  several  times  to  valse  with  him  ;  and 
when  I  would  not  consent  to  do  so,  he  catechised 
me  in  this  way  : 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ^  " 

"Nothing." 

"  Oh,  but  there  must  be  something.  Have  you 
got  heart  disease  ?  " 

"No." 


Louis  Blanc  233 

'*  Are  you  consumptive  ?  " 

"No." 

*' No,  you  don't  look  so,  and  I  shouldn't  think 
you  were — except  in  the  way  of  victuals." 

1  was  amazed  at  this  speech,  for  manners  were 
better  in  those  days  than  they  are  now  ;  but  I  could 
not  help  laughing. 

"  Well,  I  must  go  now,  but  I  shall  have  that  round 
dance,"  he  said. 

And  he  managed  it  later  in  the  evening,  by  getting 
the  band  to  turn  a  square  dance  into  a  valse. 

It  was  whilst  I  was  sitting  in  this  corner  that 
Lady  Hardy  came  to  me  and  said  she  wanted  to 
introduce  me  to  M.  Louis  Blanc,  and  she  indicated 
a  very  short,  grey-headed  man  with  brilliant  dark 
eyes,  who  sat  in  a  corner  near  the  window  in  the 
same  room,  and  almost  opposite  me. 

"  I  am  very  anxious  to  get  him  to  dance,"  she 
said  ;  "  I  have  asked  him  many  times,  and  offered 
to  introduce  many  girls  to  him,  but  he  says  he  will 
*  only  dance  with  Marie  Antoinette,'  and  that's  you. 
He's  a  red  Republican,  you  know,"  she  added  with 
a  laugh. 

I  declined  the  honour,  but  when  one's  hostess  is 
determined  what  can  one  do  ^  I  had  to  give  in, 
and  was  led  up  to  the  little  man,  who  bowed  in 
derision,  or  so  I  thought.  He  could  not  dance  at 
all,  and  said  so.  He  never  spoke  a  truer  word.  I 
pushed   and   pulled,  and,   with  the   help   of  the  other 


234  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

couples,  bustled  him  through  the  lancers  ;  but  as  he 
would  do  his  steps  and  bow  over  my  hand  every 
time  we  met,  the  grand  chain  was  a  hopeless  muddle. 
Fortunately  we  danced  in  the  small  drawing-room, 
which  would  only  hold  one  set,  and  we  had  it  to 
ourselves,   except  for  a  few  spectators. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  chatter  and  laughter,  and 
when  we  finished  the  dance  Louis  Blanc  thanked  me 
for  piloting  him  through  it,  and  apologised  for  dancing 
so  badly.  I  said  something  polite  in  return.  I  was 
beginning  to  forget  that  he  was  Louis  Blanc  and  I 
Marie  Antoinette,  and  no  doubt  we  should  have 
become  very  friendly,  but  the  other  dancers  crowded 
round  us,  and  some  officious  person,  clapping  his 
hands  softly^  said  : 

"  Bravo  !      Louis  Blanc  and  Marie  Antoinette  !  " 

That  was  too  much  for  me.  I  retorted,  "  I  am  not 
Marie  Antoinette  !  " 

"  Oh  yes,  yes  you  are  !  "  said  several  voices.  "  Isn't 
she  ^  "  appealing  to  Louis  Blanc. 

The  Frenchman,  smiling  and  bowing,  kissed  my 
hand  and  declared  I  was  "  the  image  of  a  young 
portrait  of  her,"  and  so  he  had  "  determined  to  dance 
with  the  French  Queen."  Now  I  looked  upon  all 
this  not  so  much  as  a  foolish  game,  but  that  they  were 
laughing  and  sneering  at  the  unfortunate  woman  whose 
double  I  was  said  to  be  ;  so  I  turned  to  Louis  Blanc 
and  asked  : 

"  How    dare     you,    a    Radical,    a    red    Republican, 


Louis  Blanc  and  Marie  Antoinette        235 

propose  dancing  with  a  Queen  ?  You  know  the  real 
Marie  Antoinette  would  not  have  spoken  to  you  !  " — 
(''  That's  true  ! "  cried  some  one.) — "  Your  countrymen 
behaved  in  a  most  horrible  and  abominable  manner. 
The  French  Revolution  is  a  scandal  you  cannot,  as  a 
nation,  get  over."  * 

"  That's  true  !  " — '*  She  has  sense." — "  She  speaks 
well," — were  the  sentences  I  heard  whispered  round 
me  ;  but  Louis  Blanc  shook  his  head  as  if  he  did 
not  understand,  and  turned  to  a  countryman  of  his, 
who  evidently  explained. 

*'  Ah  !  C'est  vrai  !  "  he  ejaculated,  and  I  con- 
tinued more  slowly  and  very  distinctly  : 

"  You  sneer  and  mock  at  your  Queen,  whose  head 
you  chopped  off.  I  believe  she  was  not  so  foolish  as 
she  was  made  out.  She  was  in  a  difficult  position, 
which,  as  you  did  not  live  then,  you  can  know  nothing 
about — and  she  was  very  young,  no  older  than  I  am 
now,  when  she  came  to  the  throne." 

Here  Louis  Blanc  shook  his  head,  and  I  saw  I  had 
made  a  mistake  ;  but  it  in  no  wise  deterred  me.  I 
said  a  great  deal  about  Republicans,  their  impatience, 
impertinence,  and  violence,  that  I  do  not  now  remember, 
and  ended  up  with  : 

"  Whatever  were  her  faults,  she  suffered,  and  she 
went  to  her  death  like  a  Queen.  Surely  you  can  let 
her  rest  nowT 

*  I  had  no  doubt  heard  my  father,  or  one  of  his  Hterary  friends, 
make  this  remark. 


236  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

I  had  spoken  with  the  greatest  vigour  and  emphasis, 
which  had  silenced  their  sneers  and  their  laughter  ; 
but  my  excitement  was  cooling,  and  my  voice  faltered 
and  broke.  I  turned  away,  and  the  little  crowd  silently 
opened  to  let  me  pass. 

"  Look,  her  eyes  flash  scorn,  as  Marie  Antoinette's 
did  at  the  rabble,"  said  a  voice. 

I  gave  my  hand  a  backward  fling  and  retorted, 
"  You  are  the  rabble  ! — let  me  pass."  Directly  I  had 
spoken  I  was  ashamed  of  myself,  and  my  anger  cooled. 

I  saw  the  Philosopher's  youthful  face  looking 
curiously  at  me  from  a  doorway  ;  he  was  evidently 
wondering  what  had  disturbed  my  temper.  I  saw 
General  Lowe  coming  to  the  rescue  ;  I  turned  to 
him,  but  M.  Louis  Blanc  stopped  me  with  a  burst 
of  complimentary  eloquence,  only  one  sentence  of 
which  I  distinctly  remember  ;   it  was  : 

"  If  you  had  been  the  Queen  there  would  have 
been   no  Revolution." 

I  gave  an  indignant  denial  and  waved  my  hand  to 
wave  him  aside. 

"  Ah,  no  !  "  he  cried,  taking  my  hand  ;  "  I  am 
not  sneering,  I  mean  it.  It  is  a  new  idea  you  give 
me  of  Marie  Antoinette — yes,  there's  something  in 
it — I'll  not  laugh  at  her  again,   I  promise  you." 

These,  though  not  quite  all  his  actual  words,  which 
were  more  complimentary  to  me,  were  the  gist  of 
what  he  said,  as  he  wished  me  a  happier  fate  than 
hers.     But   I  heard    him,    as  I   walked  away,   tell  his 


General  Lowe  237 

countryman  that  I  was  too  spirituelle,  too  highly  strung, 
to  have  a  happy  Hfe.  "  But  what  a  likeness,  what 
a  likeness  !     Ah  !   poor  Marie  Antoinette  !  " 

I  shivered  with  nervous  exhaustion  and  excitement, 
and  felt  ready  to  cry,  especially  when  I  saw  the  dancers 
from  the  large  room  come  crowding  in,  asking,  '*  What 
is  it  ? — what  has  happened  ?  "  But  General  Lowe 
turned  a  smiling  face  to  them  and  made  some  jesting 
reply  ;  and  then  as  we  came  into  the  supper  room 
he  patted  my  hand,  which  lay  on  his  arm,  and  wanted 
to  know  "  who  had  been  upsetting  his  little  girl." 
So  1  told  him  what  had  happened,  and  ended  by 
saying,  as  I  usually  did,  that  I  hated  to  be  thought 
like  any  one  who  was  so  ill-used  and  unhappy. 

"  Like  her  !  "  exclaimed  the  General.  "  Why,  Marie 
Antoinette  had  grey  hair  and  a  Roman  nose,  and  you 
have  neither." 

'*  That's  just  what  I  think  !  "  I  exclaimed  eagerly, 
"  but  people  say " 

"  People  say  anything,  so  don't  worry  yourself, 
little  girl.     Now  what  will  you  have  to  eat  V 

I  chose  my  usual  party  supper  of  cold  beef  and  a 
glass  of  port.  We  were  soon  seated  at  a  little  table, 
the  General  deep  in  military  matters,  when  Lady  Hardy 
found  us,  and,  sitting  down  at  my  side,  said,  "  You 
have  made  quite  a  conquest  of  Louis  Blanc."  But  here 
the  General  broke  in  quickly  by  asking  her  to  take 
a  glass  of  port.  She  lifted  her  hands  in  horror,  and 
scolded  him   for  drinking  it. 


238  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"Don't  you  know,"  she  said,  *' it  flushes  one's  face 
and  makes  one  look  ugly  ?  " 

The  General  laughed,  and  filling  his  glass  drank 
Lady  Hardy's  health  in  port. 

"  It  will  take  a  great  deal  to  make  this  child  look 
ugly,"  was  his  joking  reply. 


CHAPTER    XX 

MADOX  BROWN — THE  PRE-RAPHAELITE  YOUNG  LADIES — "A  GREAT 
distinction" — THE  PRE-RAPHAELITE  YOUNG  LADIES  ON  WILLIAM 
MORRIS — SIR  BENJAMIN  RICHARDSON  ON  TRUTH. 

IT  was  at  Lady  Hardy's  At  Homes  that  I  met  the 
Madox  Browns,  O'Shaughnessys,  Hepworth 
Dixons,  Cordy  Jepherson,  and  W.  S.  Wills.  Mr. 
Madox  Brown  was  one  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  school  ; 
he  was  a  great  friend  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  and 
William  Morris.  Rossetti  was  his  pupil,  or  at  any 
rate  worked  in  Mr.  Madox  Brown's  studio,  and  they 
influenced  each  other  greatly.  It  was  after  they  had 
been  working  together,  and  when  Mr.  Madox  Brown 
had  taken  up  Pre-Raphaelitism — in  fact,  in  the  days 
when  he  was  looked  upon  as  the  father  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  school — that  1   used  to  meet  him. 

He  was  a  tall,  good-looking  man,  with  a  long 
beard,  almost  down  to  his  waist.  It  was  brown  and 
flecked  with  white,  and  reminded  me  of  fine  seaweed. 
He  never  talked  much,  nor  was  he  ever  very  sociable, 
even  to  his  hostess,  who  was  always  so  talkative,  good- 
tempered,  and  charming  to  every  one,  that  it  was 
difficult    not  to  become  genial   in  her  presence.     But 

239 


240  In   the    Sixties   and   Seventies 

Mr.  Madox  Brown  used  to  walk  about  and  occasionally 
pose  near  the  piano  or  fireplace,  and  I  used  to  look 
at  him  and  admire  him,  and  try  to  think  what  hero 
of  mine  he  would  do  for  ;  but  unfortunately  one  of 
Leah's  nonsense  verses  would  come  into  my  head, 
and   I  found  myself  quoting  : 

There  was  an  old  man  with  a  beard, 
Who  said  :  "  It  is  just  as  I  feared  ; 
Two  owls  and  a  hen,  four  larks  and  a  wren, 
Have  all  built  their  nests  in  my  beard  ! 

It  was  the  beard  that  did  it,  and  even  to  this  day 
when  any  one  quotes  that  verse  Mr.  Madox  Brown's 
tall  figure,  serious  face,  and  long  beard  come  before  me. 
I  am  always  annoyed  at  this  freak  of  fancy,  for  I  liked 
the  artist  ;  there  was  nothing  frivolous  or  undignified 
about  him,  and  even  in  those  days,  more  than  these, 
I  disliked  to  see  people  make  themselves  ridiculous, 
especially  if  they  were  authors  or  artists. 

In  the  sixties  and  seventies  the  childishness  of  grown- 
up people  was  not  so  apparent  as  now — seemliness  in 
behaviour  was  more  studied.  The  comic  man  of  the 
party  seldom  went  further  than  pretending  to  draw 
corks  by  putting  his  fingers  into  his  mouth  and  sud- 
denly withdrawing  them,  tapping  his  cheeks  to  imitate 
liquid  coming  from  a  bottle,  buzzing  like  a  fly,  and 
so  on.  These  exhibitions  seldom  occurred  except  at 
children's  parties  ;  and  though  the  performer  made 
himself  look  very  hot  and  ridiculous,  the  spectacle  he 
presented   was  as    nothing    compared   with   that   of  a 


Madox   Brown  241 

party  of  grown-up  people  in  the  present  day  when 
they  have  just  finished  tobogganing  down  the  stairs 
on  tea  trays,  or  are  romping  over  Puss-in-the-corner, 
Hunt-the-sHpper,  and  other  childish  games. 

It  was  the  quiet  dignity  of  Mr.  Madox  Brown  I 
admired,  but  I  used  very  much  to  wish  he  would 
make  himself  comfortable  and  sit  down  and  talk  about 
pictures.  Though  he  belonged  to  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
school,  and  was  a  great  admirer  of  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti — and  there  was  at  that  time  a  great  deal  of 
talk  about  Rossetti  and  also  about  William  Morris — 
Mr.  Madox  Brown  seldom  joined  in  the  conversation, 
which  he  left  entirely  to  his  wife,  daughters,  and  the 
Misses  O'Shaughnessy. 

Only  once  did  I  hear  him  speak  at  any  length, 
and  that  was  one  moon-lit  night,  when  we  walked  home 
through  the  silent  streets  and  squares — a  whole,  rather 
noisy,  party  of  us.  Mr.  Madox  Brown,  my  mother, 
and  I  walked  together,  and  he  and  she  talked  about 
painting,  and  very  interesting  the  conversation  was. 
The  artist  became  quite  eloquent  and  genial,  and  one 
really  saw  what  a  charming  man  he  was.  He  had 
found  a  congenial  spirit,  a  sister  of  the  brush  ;  for 
my  mother  painted  in  those  days,  exhibiting  in  the 
Royal  Academy,  and  most  of  the  other  exhibitions. 

Mrs.  Madox  Brown  and  her  daughters  were  pro- 
minent members  of  this  literary  and  artistic  coterie. 
They  were  always  dressed  in  what  was  then  con- 
sidered the  height  of  artistic  and  aesthetic  fashion.      It 

16 


242  In  the  Sixties  and  Seventies 

consisted  in  wearing  soft,  limp,  full  dresses,  with  short 
waists,  or  none  at  all.  The  material  was  generally 
either  cashmere  or  what  is  now  called  nun's  veiling  ; 
the  favourite  colours  dull  brick  red,  peacock  blue, 
sage  green,  and  cinnamon  brown.  The  dresses  were 
often  cut  slightly  square  at  the  throat  and  had  very 
full  sleeves  ;  jewellery  of  the  barbaric  kind  was  worn 
with  them,  and  the  whole  effect  was  Rossettian  and 
Burne-Jonesian  in  the  extreme.  But  these  ladies  were 
not  quite  so  consumptive  and  willowy-looking  as 
Burne-Jones  made  his  figures — ^no  human  being  could 
be  so  and  live  ;  but  their  hair,  colour,  and  pose  were 
very  like  a  Burne-Jones  picture,  and  I  wondered 
how  they  did  it.  Was  it,  I  asked  myself,  eating  very 
little  and  drinking  vinegar  ?  Did  they  breakfast  on 
red  currant  jelly  and  a  glass  of  champagne,  as  I  had 
heard  of  Swinburne  doing,  and  dine  off  the  wing  of 
a  lark,  as  another  genius  was  supposed  to  do  ? 

There  is  something  in  the  superior  way  that  very 
slim,  willowy  people  look  at  big  ones  that  makes 
the  latter  ashamed  of  their  size.  In  the  days  I  am 
writing  about  the  average  height  of  a  woman  was,  I 
should  think,  not  more  than  five  feet  three  inches,  and 
I  was  four  inches  above  that,  and  thought  too  tall. 
I  should  say  now  the  average  size  must  be  five  feet 
five  or  six.  The  Misses  Madox  Brown  and  their 
friends  looked  tall  from  their  slimness,  and  Miss 
Duffus  Hardy  and  I  used  to  squeeze  ourselves  into 
as  small  a  space  as  wc  could,  and  sit  and  admire  them, 


''A   Great   Distinction''  243 

though  they  never  spoke  to  us  that  I  can  remember. 
But  this  did  not  render  us  unhappy,  for  we  had  each 
such  a  happy  knack  of  being  interested  in  all  we  saw 
and  heard  that  we  were  not  at  all  self-conscious  ;  and 
this  trait  led  to  a  scene  which  my  father  witnessed, 
and  which  delighted  him  very  much. 

At  a  dance  at  Mr.  Henry  Dunphie's,  of  The  Morning 
Post,  when  the  ladies  had  left  the  gentlemen  in  the 
supper  room,  a  gentleman  (a  stranger  to  my  father) 
rose  and  made  a  little  speech,  in  which  he  alluded 
to  the  way  ladies  were  toasted  in  the  olden  time,  for 
their  beauty  and  wit,  and  said  that  though  it  was  an 
old  fashion  he  thought  it  a  good  one,  and  wished  to 
propose  such  a  toast.  From  certain  speeches  that  had 
come  to  his  ears  he  knew  he  had  all  the  men  on  his 
side  ;  he  saw  they  had  their  glasses  charged,  but  this 
must  be  drunk  in  bumpers  and  with  honours.  Every 
one  filled  his  glass  and  rose  to  his  feet,  and  my 
father's  amazement  was  great  when  he  heard  (I  quote 
the  toast  as  it  was  told  me)  :  "  Here's  to  the  health 
and  happiness  of  Miss  Hain  Friswell  and  Miss  Duffus 
Hardy — the  two  prettiest,  most  unaffected,  and  charming 
girls  in  London  !  "  We  heard  the  noise  and  cheering 
upstairs  in  the  ballroom  and  wondered  what  was 
happening.  Probably  if  such  a  scene  had  occurred  at 
a  dance  in  these  days  it  would  have  found  its  way 
into  one  or  more  of  the  papers  ;  but  in  those  times 
people  were  not  fond  of  advertising  all  that  was  said 
and  done  in  private — they  did  not  think  it  good  form 


244  In   the    Sixties   and   Seventies 

for  their  families  or  themselves  to  be  so  advertised,  and 
my  father  would  have  disliked  it  intensely.  But  I  have 
never  seen  him  more  pleased  than  he  was  when  he 
told  me,  as  we  drove  home,  of  the  honour  that  had 
been  done  us. 

He  impressed  upon  me  that  it  was  a  great  distinction 
and  a  most  unprecedented  thing  in  those  days,  some- 
thing to  be  very  proud  of;  and  I  was  not  to  think  it 
was  done  to  flatter  him — the  proposer  did  not  know 
him,  nor  Lady  Hardy.  Sir  Thomas  was  not  there, 
he  seldom  went  to  dances.  My  father  went  on  to 
tell  me  that  it  was  "  a  great  mark  of  admiration  on 
the  part  of  the  gentlemen,"  and  one  to  be  especially 
proud  of,  "  as  they  were  all  men  of  culture,  and  many 
of  them  distinguished  in  literature,  art,  and  the  stage." 
But  what  had  pleased  him  most  was  the  expression 
"  unaffected  " — that  was,  he  said,  "  the  highest  com- 
pliment ;  beauty  and  wit  were  nothing  if  a  woman 
was  affected — to  be  natural  was  the  mark  of  a  true 
gentlewoman." 

I  can  remember  my  feelings  during  this  speech. 
I  was  unfeignedly  glad  my  father  was  so  pleased ;  yet 
I  was  rather  astonished  at  his  pleasure  and  not  at 
all  elated  myself.  I  never  could  believe  in  compli- 
ments ;  I  looked  upon  them  merely  as  a  finish  to  a 
gentleman's  education,  a  fa^on  de  parler,  of  the  least 
consequence.  They  ran,  as  a  gentleman  once  angrily 
told  me,  "  like  water  off  a  duck's  back." 

But  in  mentioning  the  party  at  Henry  Dunphie's  I 


"The   Establishment"  245 

am  anticipating,  for  it  occurred  a  year  or  two  after  the 
time  when  Miss  Duffus  Hardy  and  I  used  to  meet  Mrs. 
Madox  Brown  and  her  daughters,  and  sit  listening 
to  their  praise  of  Swinburne,  Rossetti,  and  above  all 
William  Morris.  These  ladies  and  their  friends  used 
to  throw  the  ball  of  conversation  from  one  to  the 
other,  working  themselves  up  into  a  great  state  of  en- 
thusiasm, which  was  quite  entertaining  to  their  two  girl 
admirers. 

Mr.  William  Morris  was  their  rara  avis  ;  they 
eulogised  his  work  in  the  most  extravagant  manner,  from 
the  poem  "  The  Earthly  Paradise,"  down  through  wall 
papers,  chintzes,  and  old  furniture,  till  they  arrived  at 
the  internal  and  external  decorations  of  his  shop  in 
Oxford  Street.  In  everything  they  lauded  Morris 
to  the  skies,  and  allowed  no  one  else  to  get  a  word 
in  edgeways. 

But,  if  Miss  Hardy  and  I  were  interested  in  what 
they  said,  and  their  way  of  saying  it,  I  think  Lady 
Hardy  and  my  mother  became  rather  bored.  Now, 
as  I  have  said  elsewhere,  my  mother  was  always  an 
admirable  listener  ;  she  was  repose  personified,  and  I 
had  been  that  very  evening  contrasting  her  quiet, 
dignified  manner  with  the  animated  volubility  of  some 
of  the  other  ladies.  1  must  here  mention  that  they 
never  spoke  of  Mr.  Morris's  "  shop,"  but  called  it  "  the 
establishment."  I  suppose  this  puzzled  my  mother, 
for  she  at  last  asked  : 

'*  What  is  the  establishment  ?  " 


246  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

They  explained. 

"  Oh,  you  mean  the  shop  in  Oxford  Street,"  re- 
turned my  mother. 

"  Tou  may  call  it  a  shop,  but  it  is  always  spoken  of 
as  the  establishment." 

"  But  why  not  call  it  a  shop  }  "  said  my  mother. 
"  I  thought  goods  were  displayed  in  the  window  for 
sale  " 

"  So  they  are.  Mr.  Morris  has  some  beautiful 
Louis  XV.  chairs  and  cabinets  that  are  in  the  window ; 
but  for  all  that  one  would  not  like  to  say  he  keeps  a 
shop."      This  was  said  in  the  most  reproving  tone. 

"  But  what  nonsense  when  he  does  keep  one  !  " 
replied  my  mother,  then  added,  "  Is  he  not  a 
Sociahst  ^ " 

"  Oh  yes,  he  believes  every  one  ought  to  be  equal, 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing  ;  but  I  don't  think  he  would 
like  to  be  considered  a  tradesman.  I  know  he  does 
not  consider  himself  one." 

"  Fancy  calling  William  Morris  a  tradesman  !  " 
exclaimed  a  young  lady  in  an  awed  voice.  "  He's  a 
giant — a  reformer.  No  one  would  dare  to  say  he 
keeps  a  shop." 

"  The  place  in  Oxford  Street  is  a  shop,"  returned 
my  mother  determinedly,  "  and  I  shall  call  it  a  shop." 

This  put  an  end  to  the  discussion  and  so  damped 
their  enthusiasm  that  they  said  no  more.  But  all  these 
ladies  looked  in  anything  but  a  friendly  manner  at 
my   mother,   and  a  young   lady,   whose   name  I   have 


''  Establishment ''  versus  ''  Shop  "         247 

forgotten,  but  whose  "  principal  feature  was  eye,  and 
greatest  accomplishment  gush,"  evidently  considered 
her  a  Philistine  of  the  most  dangerous  and  rampant 
kind. 

It  struck  me  at  that  time — I  was  not  then   used   to 
the  inconsistencies  of  people — as  very  odd  that  these 
ladies  should  admire  a  man  for  his  socialistic  opinions, 
and    yet   be   so    far   from    taking   him    seriously   as  to 
declare  he  would  be  false  to  his  tenets  by  being  ashamed 
of  calling  himself  a  tradesman,  or  a  shop  a  shop.      I 
had  yet  to  learn  that  there  are  people  who  hate  above 
all  things   to   call   things   by  their  right   names ;    who 
like  to  pretend  and  cheat  themselves  into  believing  that 
things    are    not    as   they    are,    or    what   they   are,   but 
something   infinitely   better   and    less   prosaic.      I    had 
illusions    of    my    own — very    many — but    it    puzzled 
me   to    imagine  why   "  establishment "    should    sound 
grander,    or    more    poetical,    than    "  shop."     "  Estab- 
lishment "  gave  me  the  idea  of  a  gloomy,  uninteresting 
building,  of  the  warehouse  or  public  baths  sort,  while 
a  "  shop  "  was  an  artistic,  brilliant,  and  beautiful  place. 

In  telling  this  little  anecdote  to  my  father,  and 
making  him  laugh  at  the  indignation  and  contempt 
these  ladies  showed  for  my  mother's  down-right 
speech  and  manner,  I  expressed  my  wonder  at  Mr. 
William  Morris's  views,  as  represented  by  his  friends. 

"  Morris  has  none  of  that  snobbishness  about  him," 
said  my  father ;  "  and  if  he  heard  it,  would  be  the 
first  to  say  '  preserve  me  from  my  friends,'  " 


2  4-^  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

I  was  always  sorry  my  mother  had  insisted  on  the 
word  "  shop,"  as  it  ended  the  conversation,  and 
seemed  to  offend  the  coterie  of  aesthetic  ladies.  I 
said  so  to  my  father  ;  he  agreed,  and  remarked  that 
people  seldom  relish  the  truth. 

Talking  of  truth  reminds  me  of  an  anecdote  of 
Dr.  Richardson  and  my  father.  When  Dr.  Richardson's 
book,  Hygeia,  the  City  of  Healthy  was  published,  my 
father  said  to  him  one  day  chaffingly  : 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  telling  us  that  all  our 
houses  are  unhealthy  and  insanitary  because  we  have 
paper  on  our  walls,  and  because  we  haven't  our 
kitchens  in  the  attics  }  " 

"  Ah,  Friswell,"  he  replied,  "  if  you  want  people  to 
notice  you,  it's  no  use  telling  them  the  truth  ;  the 
thing  is,  to  start  a  thundering  big  lie — then  they'll 
believe  in  you." 


CHAPTER    XXI 

MR.  JOSEPH  ELLIS — SNOWED  UP  ON  THE  LINE — AN  OLD  ENGLISH  HOME 
— "  ORION  ''  HORNE — MR.  DALLAS — MISS  ISABELLA  DALLAS  GLYN — 
MISS  GLYN  ON  MARRIAGE— AN  EVENING  PARTY  AND  AN  AMUSING 
INCIDENT — A  NEW  VERSION  OF  PETRARCH  AND  LAURA. 

ONE  of  the  most  remarkable  men  I  knew  was 
Mr.  Joseph  Ellis.  He  was  a  gentleman  of 
the  old  school;  his  manners  were  punctilious,  and  his 
dress  was  eccentric.  He  always  wore  a  frock  coat 
and  a  large  silk  cravat,  which  was  tied  in  a  loose  bow 
with  flowing  ends,  and  was  generally  of  some  brilliant 
colour  ;  the  sleeves  of  his  coat  were  made  very  long 
and  lined  at  the  wrists  with  velvet  ;  he  then  turned 
them  right  back  and  they  formed  a  cuff;  his  shirt 
and  collar  were  of  very  fine  linen  and  seemed  to 
have  little  stifiiiess  in  them.  In  the  country  and 
sometimes  in  Brighton,  he  wore  short  Wellington  or 
riding-boots,  his  trousers  tucked  in  the  tops  ;  his 
felt  hat  had  rather  a  high  crown  ;  he  had  keen,  bright, 
kindly  eyes  under  overhanging  brows,  a  bald  head, 
long  iron-grey  hair,  and  a  bushy  beard.  His  father 
had  built  and  kept  the  old  Star  and  Garter  Hotel 
at  Richmond,  and  he  had  known  many  very  famous 
people  in   his  day.      Mr.   Joseph    Ellis    was  the  elder 

249 


250  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

brother  of  Sir  John  Whittaker  Ellis,  and  the  cleverest 
of  a  large  family  who  were  all  successful  men  of 
business.  Mr.  Ellis  was  not  only  a  first-rate  man 
of  business,  but  had  great  good  taste  in  both  literature 
and  art.  He  was  not  bitten  by  the  vulgar  money- 
at-any-cost  mania,  but  was  absolutely  fond  of  literature 
and  art,  not  as  an  investment,  but  from  pure  love. 
In  this  he  was  greatly  in  advance  of  his  family  and 
friends,  who  were  all  very  charming  and  amiable 
people,  but,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  did  not  at 
all  appreciate  the  beautiful  things  which  he  collected 
around  him,  nor  the  clever  people  he  often  invited 
to  his  house.  He  was,  too,  a  poet,  and  his  books, 
Caesar  in  Egypt,  Constanza,  Columbus  at  Seville,  and 
others,  contrasted  well  with  much  that  was  written 
then  and  is  written  and  published   now. 

The  first  edition  of  Columbus  at  Seville  came  out  in 
1869,  the  second  in  1876,  before  Tennyson's  Columbus, 
which  was  published  in  1880.  A  copy  of  the  second 
edition  of  Columbus  at  Seville  was  sent  by  the 
author  to  Tennyson.  Both  the  poems,  Columbus  at 
Seville  and  Tennyson's  Columbus  are  in  monologue, 
the  difference  being  that  one  is  a  soliloquy,  the 
other  an  objurgation  ;  but,  admitting  some  differences, 
there  are  many  similarities,  as  there  no  doubt  must 
be  when  two  poets  take  the  same  subject.  Hence 
the  author  of  Columbus  at  Seville  is  on  his  defence, 
and  says  in  his  preface  to  the  third  edition  that  "  he 
can  scarcely  be  unconscious  how,  without  explanation. 


Mr.  Joseph   Ellis  251 

he  might  be  accused  of  paraphrase,  or  at  least  of 
reverberation,"  and  any  one  who  reads  them  both  will 
grant  this. 

It  was  during  my  Christmas  holidays  that  I  first  saw 
Mr.  Ellis,  who  came  one  snowy  winter's  day  to  Great 
Russell  Street  and  carried  me  off  in  a  cab  to  Victoria 
Station,  where  we  entered  a  train  bound  for  Balcombe 
in  Sussex.  I  was  provided  with  a  footwarmer  and 
a  carriage  rug  ;  the  latter  Mr.  Ellis  tucked  well  round 
me.  Then  he  took  off  his  soft  felt,  high-crowned 
hat,  pushed  back  his  long  hair,  and  donned  a  black 
velvet  smoking-cap,  and,  tucking  a  rug  round  himself, 
proceeded  to  fall  asleep.  Three  old  gentlemen  in  the 
carriage  did  likewise,  and  I  was  left  to  my  own 
reflections,  which  as  the  train  sped  on  into  the  darkness 
were  anything  but  pleasant. 

I  did  not  know  Mr.  Ellis's  family,  and  felt  nervous 
at  going  among  strangers  ;  the  weather  was  not  genial, 
and  I  seemed  to  be  travelling  far  away  from  London 
into  quite  an  unknown  country.  My  companions 
were  all,  with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Ellis,  white- 
haired  and  pallid  ;  he  was  pale,  and  his  hair  and 
beard  were  streaked  with  grey.  They  all  looked 
ghastly  in  the  dim  light  of  the  oil  lamps  ;  the  noise 
of  the  train  prevented  my  hearing  their  breathing, 
and  1  thought  they  looked  as  if  they  were  dead. 
The  idea  was  appalling — I  tried  not  to  think,  not  to 
look  at  them  ;  but  I  grew  more  and  more  nervous, 
my  feet  were  like  ice,  and  my  teeth  began  to  chatter. 


252  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

I  was  so  concerned  at  the  look  of  my  four  com- 
panions that  I  had  not  noticed  how  the  train  had 
slackened  speed ;  but  I  became  conscious  of  the 
windows  of  other  carriages  being  let  down  with  sundry- 
bumps,  and  of  a  great  deal  of  whistling.  At  last  with 
a  jerk  the  train  came  to  a  stand  ;  the  three  old 
gentlemen,  like  so  many  Rip  Van  Winkles,  began 
slowly  to  rouse  themselves  and  feel  their  eliehows  and 
k-nees,  and  Mr.  Ellis  opened  his  eyes  and  stared 
at  the  white-faced,   terror-stricken  girl  before  him. 

"  Why,  Miss  Laura,  Miss  Laura  !  "  he  said,  and 
then,  *'  God  bless  me  ! "  he  cried,  "  what  are  we 
standing  here  for  ?  " 

Up  he  jumped,  down  went  the  window  with  a  bang, 
out  went  his  head. 

"  Porter  !  porter  !  "  he  shouted,  "  why  don't  you 
answer  ?  What  the  devil  are  you  about  ? — blocked — 
train  blocked  .? — stuff  ! — snowstorm  i^ — fiddlesticks  ! — 
line  covered  ? — well,  make  haste  and  clear  it  then ; 
don't  keep  us  here  all  night." 

Up  went  the  window  again,  Mr.  Ellis  making 
a  peculiar  blowing  noise  with  his  lips,  which  made 
me  think  he  was  very  cold,  but  which  when  I  knew 
him  better  I  found  was  only  a  curious  habit  he  had. 
My  courage  was  quite  restored  ;  the  sound  of  his  loud 
and  resolute  voice  brought  much  comfort  to  me. 
Down  he  sat,  and  leaning  forward  took  hold  of  my 
hands,  unbuttoned  my  gloves,  pulled  them  off,  and 
began  to  rub  my  hands. 


"Snowed   Up''  253 

"  That's  better,"  he  said  ;  "  why,  I  began  to  think 
you  were  petrified — poof,  poof ! — what  should  I  have 
done  with  a  statue  ? "  Then  turning  to  the  old 
gentlemen,  he  remarked,  '^  What  a  scandalous  line 
this  is  !  " 

The  three  Rip  Van  Winkles  agreed,  and  even  sat 
up,  with  sundry  groans  in  the  process,  and  talked  in 
a  rather  ghoulish  way  of  snowstorms  and  accidents 
through  trains  being  snowed  up,  also  of  snowstorms 
during  mountain  climbing.  Some  of  those  tales  were 
weird  and  wonderful,  and  quite  dramatic  as  they  were 
told  to  the  accompaniment  of  flashing  lights,  hoarse 
shouts,  and  continual  vituperation  from  some  of  the 
passengers  in  the  other  carriages.  Mr.  Ellis  was  very 
restless,  and  showed  it  by  frequently  letting  down  the 
window,  when  the  drifting  snow  and  icy  blast  would 
rush  in  ;  he  also  insisted  on  some  one  coming  to 
report  how  things  were  getting  on.  Once  he  induced 
me  to  look  out,  and  I  saw  an  animated  and  curious 
scene — a  band  of  men  with  picks,  shovels,  and  in- 
numerable lanterns,  whose  light  fell  on  a  great  mound 
of  snow,  while  the  firelight  from  the  engine  lighted  up 
some  of  their  faces,  and  the  engine  itself  puffed  and 
snorted  like  some  live  thing  in  impatience  and  pain. 
It  was  an  hour  before  the  line  was  cleared  and  we 
could  proceed. 

We  were  both  so  cold  that  we  could  scarcely  walk 
up  the  long  flight  of  steps  that  led  from  the  platform 
at  Balcombe  Station  to  the  road  ;  there  we  found  Mr. 


254  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

Ellis's  brougham  waiting.  I  stepped  in,  but  my  host 
elected  to  walk,  so  we  went  along  the  snowy  road  at 
a  walking  pace,  Mr.  Ellis  talking  to  his  coachman, 
and  now  and  again  coming  to  the  window  to  speak 
to  me.  No  vehicle  passed  us  on  the  road,  nor  were 
there  any  shops  or  houses  :  except  where  the  carriage 
lights  shone  on  the  snow  all  was  darkness  and  desola- 
tion, and  to  a  girl  used  to  the  lights  and  noise  of 
London  and  the  country  town  of  Watford  it  seemed 
the  end  of  the  world.  From  the  road  we  turned  into 
a  long  avenue,  and  at  last  drew  up  at  "  Monks,"  a 
quaint  house  that  had  once  been  a  monastery. 

I  entered  a  large  roomy  porch,  and  was  taken 
through  the  hall  to  the  drawing-room — a  long,  low 
room  with  an  organ  at  one  end  of  it,  a  piano  near 
the  fireplace,  the  walls  covered  with  water  colours, 
round  them  quaint  old  furniture  of  the  Sheraton 
period  ;  a  modern  chair  or  two  and  a  settee  covered 
in  chintz  stood  out  in  the  room.  Mrs.  Ellis  and 
her  daughter  came  forward  and  welcomed  me,  making 
me  take  a  low  chair  in  front  of  a  glorious  fire,  built 
up  of  large  logs  placed  across  dogs.  I  knew  then 
what  was  the  cause  of  the  curious  pungent  smell  I 
noticed  directly  I  entered  the  house — it  was  the 
smell  of  the  wood  ashes.  There  were  no  grates, 
except  in  the  bedrooms,  and  in  all  the  rooms  wood 
was  most   generally   burnt. 

"  Monks "    was    an    ideal    old    English    home,    for 
Mr.  Ellis  farmed   his  own  land,  brewed  his  own  beer 


Dallas  of  ''The  Times''  255 

and  made  his  own  bread.  I  was  delighted,  and  never 
tired  of  looking  at  the  churning,  brewing,  and  baking  ; 
though  I  never  saw  Mr.  or  Mrs.  EUis  in  either 
brewery,  dairy,  or  bakehouse.  One  was  in  the  Hbrary 
reading  or  writing,  the  other  in  the  drawing-room 
discoursing  most  excellent  music  on  organ  or  piano. 
A  year  or  two  after,  in  Mr.  Ellis's  house  in  Brighton, 
I  met  Mr.  R.  H.  Home,  the  author  of  Orion^  a 
magnificent  poem  published  at  the  price  of  one  farthing, 
to  show  at  what  a  price  the  Philistine  Englishman, 
in  the  author's  opinion,  appraised  true  poetry.  He 
was  a  little  old  man,  full  of  quaint  sayings  and  pungent 
satire  ;  he  was  generally  known  as  "  Orion  "  Home, 
and  had  been,  I  believe,  a  great  friend  of  the 
Brownings,  of  whom  he  delighted  to  talk. 

It  was  at  Brighton  too  that  I  met  Dallas,  a  leader 
writer  on  The  Times^  and  husband  of  Miss  Glyn,  a  well- 
known  actress  and  reader  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  I 
remember  going  into  the  dining-room  in  Hampton 
Lodge,  and  seeing  Mr.  Ellis  showing  a  very  good- 
looking  man  some  fine  pictures  which  hung  on 
the  walls.  I  was  retiring  with  a  murmured  apology 
when  Mr,  Ellis  called  me  and  introduced  me  to 
Mr.  Dallas. 

"This  is  Hain  Friswell's  daughter,"  said  Mr.  Ellis. 

"Why,    she's    like "    began    Dallas,  but  I  was 

gone  before   the  sentence  was   finished. 

We    were  Dante's  Beatrice  *  and    Petrarch's  Laura 

*   Miss  Ellis's  name  was  Beatrice 


256  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

down  at  Brighton,   and  that   was  bad  enough  ;   I    did 
not  want  to   hear   about   an   unfortunate   Queen. 

Not  long  after  I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Dallas  I 
met  Miss  Glyn,  or  Isabella  Dallas  Glyn,  as  she  was 
called.  I  had  heard  her  in  Anthony  and  Cleopatra^ 
and  did  not  like  it — which  no  doubt  was  bad  taste 
on  my  part,  as  she  was  considered  very  clever  ;  but 
I  am  not  very  fond  of  hearing  a  play  read,  and  I 
thought  Miss  Glyn  too  big  for  Cleopatra,  whose 
mummy   I    knew   well   in   the  British   Museum. 

Miss  Glyn  stayed  several  days  at  Hampton  Lodge 
whilst  1  was  there  ;  she  took  a  great  liking  to  me 
and  used  to  come  into  my  bedroom,  which  was  a 
very  large  room,  and  sit  by  the  sofa  while  I  was 
lying  down  ;  or  she  would  pace  up  and  down  the 
room  talking  and  telling  me  anecdotes,  till  Mrs.  Ellis's 
maid  would  come  to  dress  me  for  dinner,  and  then 
away  she  went  to  don  some  gorgeous  apparel,  of  which 
she  always  asked  my  opinion.  She  was  a  fine,  stout, 
handsome  woman,  with  a  bright  complexion,  and  very 
long  dark  hair.  She  used  to  talk  in  an  abrupt  manner, 
and  criticised  her  host  and  hostess  and  their  friends 
in  the  most  free-and-easy  style,  which  made  me 
boil  with  indignation,  for  I  was  very  fond  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ellis  and  their  family,  and  Balcombe  and  Brighton 
were  almost  like  my  own  home.  The  first  time  I 
had  any  conversation  with   Miss  Glyn   she  began  : 

"  Well,  so   I   hear   from   Ellis  that  you   have    seen 
Dallas — what  did   you  think  of  him  }  " 


Miss  Glyn  on  Marriage  257 

"  I  did  not  think  anything  of  him,"  I  replied,  too 
astonished  at  her  address  to  consider  my  answer. 

This  reply  tickled  her  hugely ;  she  threw  back  her 
head  and  laughed. 

"  Bravo  !  you  know  he's  my  husband,  1  suppose  ^  " 

I  did  know,  but  had  forgotten  it,  and  was  over- 
whelmed with  confusion  ;  fortunately  she  was  too 
fond  of  talking  to  notice  that  I  failed  to  reply. 

"  He's  a  handsome  man — every  one  must  admit 
that — but,  the  temper  of  a  fiend — so  we  parted  ;  and 
now  take  my  advice  and  don't  marry — but  there, 
what's  the  use  of  my  saying  that  ^  With  your  hair, 
eyes,  and  complexion  do  you  think  the  men  will  let 
you  escape  ? — no,  of  course  not." 

I  was  glad  she  answered  herself.  She  took  a  turn 
or  two  up  and  down  the  room,  and  then,  stopping 
abruptly  near  me,  said  : 

"  You  have  a  beautiful  voice  ;  why  don't  you  go  on 
the  stage .''  " 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  ballad  singer,"  I  replied. 

"  Concert  singer — nonsense  !  Go  on  the  stage  ;  I 
should  love  to  teach  you  elocution." 

I  almost  said  that  my  father  would  rather  see  me  in 
my  grave  than  an  actress,  but  I  refrained  in  time  and 
told  her  I  should  like  it,  which  was  true.  Several 
times  she  renewed  her  offers  of  teaching  me  elocution, 
but  my  father  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"Do  anything  but  marry,"  was  her  advice  to  me 
when  she  and  I  left  Brighton  and  travelled  to  London 

17 


258  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

together.  Hearing  I  was  collecting  autographs,  she 
sent  me  a  great  many. 

When  the  British  Association  met  at  Brighton 
Mr.  Ellis  would  collect  round  him  most  of  the  well- 
known  men  who  came  down  to  lecture  or  speak,  and 
entertain  them  right  royally,  throwing  his  house  open 
and  giving  luncheons,  dinners,  and  conversaziones.  At 
the  latter  he  turned  out  all  his  art  treasures,  and  the 
house  was  like  a  museum.  Another  time  he  had  a 
stage  and  sloping  seats  erected  in  the  library,  and  he 
was  made  up  and  dressed  for  the  part  of  Columbus 
and  recited  his  own  poem. 

He  read  and  recited  very  well,  but  in  rather  a 
monotonous  tone  ;  however,  as  the  poem,  Columbus 
at  Seville^  is  a  soliloquy,  perhaps  it  was  as  well  to  make 
it  mournful  and  somewhat  stilted.  Mr.  Ellis  looked 
very  well  in  a  long  black  velvet  garment  ;  he  was 
dressed  after  a  print  in  the  British  Museum,  and  was 
certainly  very  like  it. 

The  room  was  packed,  and  the  recitation  proceeded 
for  some  time  without  interruption  ;  it  is  a  long  poem 
in  blank  verse. 

"  I  told  them  I  was  serving  God  and  Queen, 
And  forward  must  they  with  me  to   the  end," 

said  Columbus,  and  then  continued  for  some  thirty 
lines  more,   till  in  a  fine  burst  he  said  : 

"  At  earliest  break  of  dawn  they  shouted   '  Land  !  ' 
Delightful  thought  !   when  first  I   lifted  hand 
And  kissed   ..." 


An  Amusing  Incident  259 

"  Sh-should  like  to  kish  shure  hand,"  said  a  thick 
voice, 

"  What  !  what  !  what  !  "  answered  Columbus 
testily.     "  What  is  that   you   say  ?  " 

*'  Sh-sh-should  like  to  be  the  Queen  and  kish 
shure  hand." 

An  audible  titter  ran  through  the  room,  but  1  am 
glad  to  say  it  was  instantly  suppressed,  and  many 
people  glared  savagely  at  the  man,  who  was  the 
culprit,  and  who,  with  bloodshot,  twinkling  eyes  and 
Bardolphian  nose,  sat  just  behind  me.  I,  with  one 
of  Mr.  Ellis's  sons,  was  in  the  front  row  of  seats, 
and  we  both  suffered  considerably  in  trying  not  to 
laugh,  for  the  descent  from  the  stately  Columbus  to 
the  irritated  poet  was  so  rapid  and  so  characteristic. 

For  my  own  part  I  could  have  slain  the  man,  I  was 
so  sorry  the  incident  occurred,  so  sorry  for  Mr.  Ellis  ; 
for,  with  the  fondness  of  the  ordinary  biped  for  jokes, 
all  serious  thought  of  the  poem  was  forgotten,  and 
after  it  was  over  every  one  talked  of  the  man's  in- 
terruption and  Mr.  Ellis's  want  of  presence  of  mind 
in  answering. 

1  used  to  feel  very  proud,  but  also  somewhat 
embarrassed,  when  Mr.  Ellis  read  his  poems  to  me. 
I  was  very  fond  of  poetry  and  used  even  then  to  read 
Keats,  Pope,  and  Coleridge,  as  well  as  my  beloved 
Longfellow  and  Tennyson ;  but  I  felt  I  was  not 
competent  to  criticise  any  one's  poems,  and  one  day 
in  my  ignorance  I  said  so  to  my  host.     It  was  a  fine 


26o  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

spring  morning,  and  1  was  getting  rather  tired  of 
sitting  in  the  Hbrary,  with  its  windows  of  tinted  glass, 
that  only  looked  upon  stuccoed  walls  which  were  a 
few  feet  off — for  Brighton  economises  space  even  in 
its  best  streets  and  amongst  its  largest  houses. 

I  fancy  I  can  see  the  sombre  room,  lined  with 
books  ;  the  poet  verging  on  old  age,  the  girl  on  the 
threshold  of  womanhood  ;  it  was  Petrarch  and  Laura 
over  again,  but  with  a  difference — one  might  say  with 
many  differences,  for  to  my  "  old  knight,"  as  Mr. 
Ellis  used  to  call  himself,  I  was  only  a  child,  and  when 
he  read  his  poems  to  me  it  was  only  for  lack  of 
some  one  older  and  more  appreciative  to  read  them  to. 
I  knew  it,  knew  it  all  the  time,  and  used  to  do  my 
utmost  to  understand  and  appreciate,  and  to  please 
him,  for  I  was  very  fond  of  him,  and  I  knew  well 
the  longing  for  appreciation  and  interest  that  all  authors 
feel.  He  wrote  some  charming  sonnets,  and  those 
1  liked  to  hear  him  read  ;  but  on  the  particular  sunny 
morning  of  which  I  am  thinking  he  was  reading 
Caesar  in  Egypt,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  known,  I 
always  hated  Anthony  and  Cleopatra,  and  pitied  Caesar. 
Then  the  sunshine  called  me — and  I  loved  the  sea 
intensely  and  could  fancy  how  it  sparkled  in  the  sun  ; 
so  when  Mr.  Ellis  paused  in  his  reading  and  looked 
at  me,  instead  of  praising  the  passage,  I  said  : 

"  I — I  really  don't  think  I  am  competent  to  judge 
of " 

"  My   dear   Miss  Laura,"  broke  out  the    poet,  "  I 


A  Modern  Laura  261 

don't  want  your  criticism  ;  I  am  only  reading  to  amuse 
you. 

I  felt  very  much  ashamed  of  myself,  and  yet  had 
a  strong  desire  to  laugh.  Mr.  Ellis  sighed  and  looked 
at  me,  half  closing  the  book.  I  wanted  to  say,  "  Do 
go  on,  I  am  interested,"  but  the  sea  and  the  sunshine 
called  me,  I  longed  to  be  on  the  beach.  While  I 
hesitated  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Ellis  stood  in 
the  doorway. 

"  I  want  Laura  to  come  for  a  drive  ;  it's  too  bad 
to  keep  her  in  this  bright  morning,  Joseph." 

"  Take  her  away,  /  don't  want  her,"  replied  Mr. 
Ellis  sharply,  and  I,  with  burning  cheeks,  escaped. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

AT  FRAMPTON  COURT — THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON  AND  HER  SONS — TWO 
AMUSING  MISTAKES — BEXLEY  HEATH — THE  VILLAGE  AUTOCRATS — 
THEIR    OPINION    OF   THE   AUTHOR   OF    "THE   EARTHLY    PARADISE." 

IN  the  memoir  of  my  father  I  have  told  how  he 
went  down  to  Frampton  Court  to  stay  with  Mr. 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  and  to  meet  Motley,  the 
author  of  The  Dutch  Republic^  and  that  he  was  taken 
with  a  fit  of  coughing  at  dinner,  and  found  he  had 
broken  a  blood-vessel  on  the  lungs.  He  left  the 
table,  went  into  the  library  and  rang  the  bell.  A 
footman  answered  it,  and  he  requested  him  to  send 
for  a  doctor  and  then  to  assist  him  to  bed,  but  on  no 
account  was  he  to  alarm  or  disturb  the  company. 
My  father  was  so  pale  and  spoke  with  such  difficulty 
that  the  man  was  too  frightened  to  remember  what  he 
was  told,  and  rushed  into  the  dining-room  exclaiming, 
"  He's  dying  !  he's  dying  !  the  gentleman's  dying  !  " 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sheridan,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton, 
and  several  people  came  to  my  father,  who  begged 
them  to  go  back  to  the  dinner  table,  and  not  to  be 
alarmed.  All  he  wanted  was  to  go  to  bed  and  to 
take  ice  or  vinegar  to  stop  the  bleeding  till  the  doctor 

262 


At  Frampton  Court  263 

came.  My  mother  was  telegraphed  for.  I  so  well 
remember  the  telegram  coming  late  at  night,  and  the 
awful  look  on  my  mother's  face.  She  and  my  grand- 
mother were  up  all  night  ;  my  mother  could  not  sleep, 
and  wandered  about  the  house  while  my  grandmother 
looked  out  trains  and  packed  up.  In  the  cold,  grey 
morning  my  mother  started,  and  soon  after  a  telegram 
came  for  me  to  go  with  her,  but  it  was  too  late. 

My  father  was  most  seriously  ill — in  fact,  he  nearly 
died.  My  mother  never  left  him  for  ten  days,  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sheridan  and  Mrs.  Norton  used  to 
write  and  send  up  to  her  numbers  of  little  notes. 
They  spent  a  very  dull  Christmas,  having  to  put  off 
all  the  mummers  and  other  village  festivities.  My 
father  and  mother  were  over  a  month  at  Frampton 
Court,  and  a  lasting  friendship  was  thus  cemented 
between  them,  the  Sheridans,  and  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
Norton,  who  was  Mr.  Sheridan's  sister,  and  grand- 
daughter of  Sheridan  the  dramatist. 

On  Sunday  afternoons  in  the  season  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sheridan,  often  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Norton,  would 
come  to  our  house  for  an  hour's  chat  ;  M.  Van-de- 
Weyer,  the  Belgian  Minister,  himself  an  author,  would 
drive  up  in  his  carriage  and  stay  to  tea,  and  other 
well-known  people,  artists,  actors,  editors,  and  poets 
would  drop  in.  Mrs.  Norton  was  a  most  charming 
old  lady,  still  handsome,  with  bright  dark  eyes  and 
beautiful  white  hair  ;  her  granddaughter  was  a  girl  of 
about  my  own  age,    her   grandson,    Richard    Norton, 


264  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

now  Lord  Grantley,  a  handsome  boy  a  year  or  two 
younger. 

My  father  and  mother  often  went  to  luncheon  with 
Mrs.  Norton  in  Chesterfield  Street,  Mayfair,  and  now 
and  then  I  was  especially  invited,  she  always  writing 
and  speaking  to  me  as  "  Marie  Antoinette." 

I  well  remember  the  first  time  my  father  and  mother 
took  me  to  luncheon  with  her.  Except  for  her  grand- 
daughter she  was  alone.  It  was  on  Academy  Sunday, 
so  my  father  and  mother  left  to  visit  some  studios, 
promising  to  return  for  me.  Then  we  adjourned  to 
Mrs.  Norton's  pretty  drawing-room,  and  we  girls  sat 
on  a  rug  at  her  feet,  while  she  told  us  stories  of  her 
youth.  I  can  recall  the  scene  now — the  beautiful  old 
lady,  the  pretty  room,  the  bright  fire,  and  the  pale 
sunlight  that,  struggling  through  the  rose-coloured 
blinds,  threw  on  sofas,  chairs,  cabinets,  and  old  china 
a  mystic  glow.  One  anecdote  I  remember  ;  it  was 
about  her  sons — she  had  three,  and  one  day  she  was 
talking  to  them,  telling  them  that  when  they  grew  up 
they  would  have  to  get  their  own  living.  She  told 
them  how  great  a  thing  it  was  to  grow  up  an  honest, 
brave,  true-hearted  man,  and  she  illustrated  her  little 
lecture  by  giving  instances  of  some  of  the  great  men 
who  had  fought  for  the  good  of  mankind  in  the  Army, 
the  Church,  Law  or  Science.  When  she  finished  she 
asked  : 

"  Now,  boys,  what  would  you  like  to  be  ?  "  and 
they  cried  with  one  voice  : 


At  Frampton  Court  265 

"  Freebooters,  mamma,  freebooters  !  " 
After  the  anecdotes  I  sang  to  her,  amongst  other 
songs,  her  own  "  Juanita."  I  remember  she  sat  close 
by  my  side,  and  told  me  how  to  say  "  Nita  ! — Oo — 
anita  !  "  in  a  very  staccato  manner,  and  she  paid  my 
.  voice  a  great  many  compliments.  Then  we  returned 
to  the  fire  and  she  told  us  stories  of  her  home,  of  her 
sisters  Lady  DufFerin  and  the  Duchess  of  Somerset. 
When  my  father  and  mother  returned  for  me  and  we 
at  last  emerged  into  the  street,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  come 
from  the  Old  World  into  the  New,  and  it  seemed 
not  half  so  pleasant  as  that  in  which  those  three  lovely 
women  lived.  But  I  had  heard  nothing  of  troubles  ; 
the  rose-coloured  light  of  that  pretty  room  had 
coloured  the  stories,  and  I  was  only  conscious  of  a 
vague  sadness  in   Mrs.   Norton's  face  and   voice. 

I  think  here  I  must  tell  a  rather  good  story  which, 
though  it  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  Mrs. 
Norton,  I  yet  always  think  of  when  she  comes  into 
my  mind. 

Not  many  years  ago  I  was  calling  on  some  people 
who  lived  on  Wim.bledon  Common,  It  was  an  At 
Home  day  and  the  room  was  fairly  full.  As  I  sat 
down  near  the  tea  table  my  hostess  said  to  a  lady 
at  my  side  : 

"  Let  me  introduce  Mrs.  Myall  to  you  ;  she  is 
the  daughter  of  a  well-known  literary  man,  the 
late  Mr.  Hain  Friswell~of  course  you  know  his 
books  }  " 


266  In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  Ah,  yes — er — let  me  see."  She  paused  an  im- 
perceptible moment,  and  then,  looking  at  me  with 
a  beaming  smile,  said,  "  He  is  the  author  of  The 
School  for  Scandal^  is  he  not  ?  " 

Of  course,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  there  was  a 
lull  in  the  conversation,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
this  unfortunate  statement  echoed  round  the  room. 
All  the  company  appeared  to  await  my  answer,  and 
I  was  as  red  as  a  peony  and  covered  with  confusion  ;  I 
wanted  to  cover  her  mistake,  but  could  think  of 
nothing  for  what  seemed  a  long  time,  although  in 
reality  the  pause  was  very  slight  before  I   said  : 

"  Sheridan  wrote  The  School  for  Scandal ;  he  died 
before  my  father  was  born,  but  I  knew  his  grand- 
daughter, the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton ;  she  was  a  very 
old   lady   when   I   knew  her." 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  said  my  neighbour  in  the  coollest 
way — she  had  not  turned  a  hair.  "  I  read  a  great 
deal,  but  I  never  know  who  writes  the  books." 

A  little  more  than  a  year  ago  another  curious 
mistake  occurred.  I  was  at  a  large  literary  and 
journalistic  soiree,  and  was  talking  to  a  lady,  the 
wife  of  an  editor  of  one  of  our  great  daily  papers. 
We  had  only  met  twice  before,  and  she  was  recalling 
this. 

"  I  remember  you  quite  well,"  she  said  ;  "  we  met 
at  the  dinner  of  The  Institute  of  Journalists — your 
name  is  Hain  Friswell,  and  you  are  the  daughter  of 
Hans  Christian   Andersen." 


At  Bexley  Heath  267 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake,"  I  replied.  *'  Hans 
Andersen   was   never  married." 

She  looked  at  me  quite  resentfully,  and  tried  to 
argue  the  point,  and  I  left  her  only  half  convinced. 

After  my  father's  serious  illness  at  Frampton  Court 
he  was  delicate  for  a  long  time— in  fact,  he  was  never 
perfectly  well  again,  and  though  he  lived  for  eight 
years  he  was  practically  an  invalid.  In  the  summer 
of  1870  he  took  a  small  house  at  Bexley  Heath,  in 
Kent,  and  we  divided  our  time  between  that  place 
and  London. 

The  little  village  of  Bexley  is  on  the  loop  line 
to  Maidstone,  a  line  that  takes  Time  not  by  the 
forelock,  but  by  the  hindermost  part,  and  never  by 
any  chance  hurries  itself;  so,  though  only  twelve 
miles  from  Charing  Cross,  it  seems  farther  than 
Brighton,  one  is  so  long  getting  there  :  added  to  this 
Bexley  itself  is  in  a  hollow,  and  is  not  considered 
so  healthy  as  Bexley  Heath,  where  people  are  said 
to  live  to  a  patriarchal  old  age.  "  The  Heath,"  as 
the  inhabitants  call  it,  is  nearly  two  miles  from  Bexley, 
and  to  get  there,  either  riding  or  walking,  it  is  necessary 
to  climb  a  very  steep  hill.  When  you  are  there  the 
view  over  fourteen  miles  of  country  is  very  beautiful, 
but  the  Heath  itself  is  an  eyesore,  a  blot  on  the 
landscape — it  consists  of  a  medley  of  houses,  shops, 
and  St.  John's  Woodian  villas,  built  along  the  Dover 
Road,  one  of  the  old  Roman  roads  over  which 
the  coaches  used  to  run  when  Bexley  Heath  was  the 


268  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

resort  of  highwaymen.  Indeed,  there  are  remarkable 
stories  told  to  this  day  as  to  how  the  inhabitants  of 
the  Heath  made  their  money.  But  that  part  of  the 
Dover  Road  is  like  so  many  of  our  old  Roman  roads, 
now  disfigured  with  tram  lines  and  the  hideous 
overhead  wires.  One  almost  wonders  that  the  ghosts 
of  passengers,  drivers,  guards,  and  highwaymen  do 
not  join  issue  and  rise  up  in  judgment  at  such 
sacrilege. 

Our  habitation  was  a  low,  double-fronted  cottage 
standing  in  a  beautiful  and  prolific  garden,  with  trees 
which  screened  it  from  the  road.  My  father  called 
it  "  Bayard  Cottage,"  and  it  still  retains  the  name  ; 
but  when  he  took  it  it  went  by  various  names,  and 
we  were  very  much  amused  when  we  went  shopping 
to  find  that  our  local  habitation  had  no  name  of  its 
own,  but  was  always  spoken  of  as  "  next  door  to 
BuUman's." 

The  inhabitants  of  Bexley  Heath  consisted  at  that 
time  of  middle-aged  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  had 
avoided  the  married  state,  retired  military  men  who 
grumbled  at  everything,  and  young  married  people 
wrapped  up  in  themselves  and  their  children.  My 
eldest  brother  was  with  Mr.  Norman  Lockyer,  and 
lived  in  town  ;  and  we  at  Bexley  Heath  found 
that  "  happy  village  "  deadly  dull  at  times.  Fortun- 
ately we  were  all  fond  of  reading,  writing,  painting, 
music,  and  gardening,  and  we  were  much  amused  at 
the  people  who  called  upon  us.     Their  ideas  of  artists, 


At  Bexley  Heath  269 

authors,  and  actors  were  of  the  most  crude  kind  ;  they 
seemed  to  have  the  old-fashioned  notion  that  they 
were  "vagabonds."  Like  most  of  those  who  live  in 
a  narrow  sphere,  they  understood  little  outside  it, 
and  they  told  some  preposterous  stories  and  made 
some  wonderful  statements. 

I  remember  one  of  the '  autocrats  of  the  Heath 
calling  and  making  some  astounding  statements  about 
William  Morris,  who  had  built  a  house  in  the  place. 
His  chief  offence  appeared  to  be  having  tea  parties 
on  Sunday,  I  was  generally  silent,  but  on  this 
occasion  I  was  roused,  and  was  soon  in  dire  disgrace 
for  taking  up  the  cudgels  on  his  behalf.  I  said 
plainly,  I  thought  Bexley  Heath  should  be  proud  that 
such  a  man  as  the  author  of  "  The  Earthly  Paradise  " 
had  lived  there.  I  was  promptly  told  "  little  girls 
should  be  seen  and  not  heard."  This  was  adding 
insult  to  injury,  for  I  was  by  no  means  a  little 
girl.  I  can  remember  well  my  father's  amused  smile, 
which  grew  into  a  laugh  when  the  lady  asserted  that 
she  "  had  heard,  and  felt  sure  it  must  be  true,  that 
Mrs.  Morris  had  been  in  a  circus  ;  no  one  could 
ride  and  manage  a  horse  so  beautifully  but  a 
performer." 

My  father  explained  that  this  rumour  was  quite  false, 
but  the  autocrat  refused  to  be  convinced,  and  said, 
"  That  was  not  the  worst  ;  the  man  Morris  was  quite 
a  heathen,  for  it  was  well  known  down  there  that  he 
was  married  in  his  drawing-room,  the  ceremony  being 


270  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

of  a   most  curious   character,   and   afterwards   he   had 
it  painted  upon   the  wall." 

This  was  such  an  astounding  statement  that  we 
were  very  much  puzzled,  and  asked  ourselves  what 
preposterous  story  had  got  about,  and  how  had  it 
been  arrived  at  ?  It  was  some  time  before  we  dis- 
covered  the  origin. 

The  house  Morris  built  was  called  the  Red  House. 
It  stood  in  a  quiet  country  road  ;  was  surrounded 
by  a  very  high  red-brick  wall,  in  which  were  large, 
high  wooden  gates.  The  garden  was  not  very 
extensive,  and  was  very  prim,  the  trees  in  some 
instances  being  cut  into  shapes.  The  house  itself 
was  substantial,  but  decidedly  gloomy-looking  ;  the 
windows  were  long  and  narrow,  the  roof  very  steep, 
and  the  chimneys  charming.  Inside  it  looked  cold 
and  gloomy,  but  when  I  went  over  the  house  it  was 
empty.  The  rooms  were  lofty,  the  windows  so  high 
that  no  one  could  see  out  of  them  ;  there  were  red- 
brick hoods  over  the  fireplaces,  which  consisted  of 
a  hearth  and  dogs ;  there  were  no  stoves.  In  the 
drawing-room  was  a  musicians'  gallery,  and  round  the 
walls  were  frescoes,  one  representing  a  mediaeval 
marriage.  This  was  the  picture  which  had  caused 
such  silly  stories  to  be  spread  abroad  most  likely  by 
ignorant  servants  ;  but  that  people  with  any  education 
or  sense  should  repeat  them  was  astounding. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

MY  father's  illness — RICE'S  IDEA  OF  WIT — A  RUSH  FOR  THE  DOCTOR 
— I  GIVE  MR.  RICE  A  FRIGHT  BY  WAY  OF  REVENGE — ALONE  AT 
BAYARD   COTTAGE. 

MY  father  had  taken  Bayard  Cottage  by  the 
year  ;  we  therefore  spent  the  summer  out  of 
town,  but  in  the  August  of  1870  a  novel  of  my 
father's  {One  of  Two)  began  as  a  serial  in  Once 
a  JVeek^  and  he  had  so  much  other  work,  he  said  he 
must  come  to  London  for  a  time.  He  therefore  lent 
the  cottage  to  a  friend,  and  we  all  came  up  to  town. 
My  mother  was  much  against  this,  as  my  father's 
health  was  so  delicate  she  was  always  anxious  about 
him,  and  took  especial  care  that  he  should  not  take 
cold.  She  found  that  he  was  better  in  the  purer  and 
more  invigorating  air  of  Bexley  Heath,  where  he  had 
few  friends,  and  there  were  neither  theatres  nor  clubs 
to  entice  him  out  in  the  evening  air. 

Early  in  September  our  friend  gave  up  Bayard 
Cottage,  and  my  mother  went  down  to  see  that  it 
was  ready  for  our  occupation.  The  evening  of  the 
day  my  mother  left  Mr.  Rice  called,  and  I  wished  he 
had  not,   for  I  felt  sure  he  would  take  my  father  to 

271 


272  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

a  hot  theatre  or  club,  and  there  was  the  risk  of  his 
catching  cold  coming  home.  I  have  said  that  we  all 
liked  Mr.  Rice  very  much  ;  he  was  an  exceedingly 
pleasant  man,  but  not  one  a  girl  would  care  to  ask 
a  favour  of ;  so  it  took  some  struggle  for  me  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  go  out  into  the  hall  and  speak 
to  him  before  he  went  upstairs  to  the  study.  Directly 
I  came  into  the  hall  the  servant  left,  and  after  I  had 
shaken  hands  with   Mr.   Rice  I   said  : 

"  If  you  please,  if  my  father  wants  to  go  out,  say 
you  would  rather  not — say  that  you  would  rather  stay 
in  the  study." 

Though  Rice  knew  how  ill  my  father  had  been, 
he  evidently  did  not  realise  how  delicate  he  was  ;  he 
therefore  looked  at  me  with  what  he  considered  a 
fascinating  smile,  and  answered  in  this  enigmatical 
manner  : 

"Won't  his  mother  let  him  out  .^  " 

I  could  make  nothing  of  this  speech.  I  supposed 
it  was  meant  for  a  joke,  but  it  appeared  to  me  quite 
meaningless  ;  and  so  terribly  in  earnest  was  1  that  I 
grew  hot  with  nervousness  and  anger,  tears  coming 
into  my  eyes,  because  I  knew  that  I  was  being  treated 
as  a  child — being  laughed  at,  in  fact.  I  drew  myself 
up,  and  answered  with  dignity  : 

"  I  do  not  in  the  least  know  what  you  mean,  but 
I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you.  Hot 
rooms  are  bad  for  my  father,  and  the  wind  is  cold 
to-night." 


Rice's  Idea  of  Wit  273 

I  thought  this  would  settle  the  matter,  but  not  a 
bit  of  it.  Mr.  Rice,  still  smiling,  took  out  his  large 
pocket-handkerchief  with  a  flourish,  and  seemed  to 
scatter  Ess  Bouquet  all  over  the  hall,  while  he  said  : 

'*And  can't  his  mother  trust  him,  then?" 

For  one  moment  I  wondered  if  he  were  drunk,  then 
I  looked  at  him  and  replied  angrily  : 

"  Trust  my  father  !   What  do  you  mean  ^ " 

"  You  would  like  to  knock  me  down,  I  verily 
believe,"  he  murmured  in  an  amused  tone. 

"  If  I  were  a  man  I  would  !  "  I  retorted,  as  I  looked 
him  straight  in  the  eyes  and  clenched  my  hands. 

"  Oh,  you  little  spit-fire  !  I  believe  you  would,  for 
you're  not  a  bit  like  a  girl." 

I  left  him  to  have  the  last  word,  which  a  man  so 
dearly  loves.  With  my  head  up  I  marched  towards 
the  dining-room,  while  he  mounted  the  stairs  very 
slowly,  with  many  a  backward  look  at  me. 

In  about  half  an  hour  my  father  and  Rice  came 
down  into  the  dining-room,  where  we  were  sitting. 
My  father  said  they  were  going  to  the  Savage  Club. 
My  grandmother  murmured  some  remonstrance,  but 
I  spoke  up,  and  said,  "  The  wind  is  very  cold."  I 
hoped  Mr.  Rice  would  have  had  the  sense  then  to 
suggest  staying  in  and  playing  cards  ;  but  he  said 
nothing,  and  only  stood  smiling  at  me.  My  father, 
with  a  laugh,  told  me  not  to  put  on  such  an  anxious 
face — he  was  all  right. 

We   spent   anything   but   a  pleasant  evening,  for   I 

18 


274  In  the  Sixties  and   Seventies 

could  see  my  grandmother  was  very  much  worried. 
The  next  morning  she  told  me  she  had  been  up  half 
the  night,  my  father's  cough  was  so  bad.  At  ten 
o'clock  haemorrhage  came  on  and  some  one  had  to  run 
for  ice  (we  were  short  of  a  servant,  the  housemaid 
having  gone  for  a  fortnight's  holiday).  I  had  to  go 
for  a  doctor,  and  I  well  remember  running  out  of 
the  house  and  down  the  street,  struggling  to  get  my 
arms  into  my  jacket,  and  saying  aloud,  "It's  come,  it's 
come  !  it  means  death  this  time  !  O  God,  don't  kill 
my  father  !   don't  let  him  die  !  " 

I  tore  down  the  street,  and  reaching  Southampton 
Row  rushed  at  the  first  four-wheeler,  trying  with 
my  weak  hands  to  open  the  door,  but  I  could  not 
manage  it.  When  the  old  driver  came  up  and  saw 
the  state  of  mind  1  was  in,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Why,  missie,  missie,  whatever  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  My  father's  dying  ! — put  me  in  !  "  I  cried,  and 
he  lifted  me  into  the  cab.     I  gave  him  the  address. 

"  Drive  as  fast  as  ever  you  can  !  "   I  said. 

"All  right — don't  take  on  so,  missie,"  he  replied 
as  he  banged  the  door.  He  scrambled  on  to  the 
box,  and  away  we  went  at  a  gallop. 

I  had  never  been  in  a  cab  by  myself  in  my  life. 
I  was  so  alarmed  about  my  father  that  for  the  first 
few  moments  I  could  not  see,  and  then  when  I  looked 
out  of  the  window  I  failed  in  my  excitement  to  recognise 
the  streets  and  houses.  I  knew  the  way  quite  well, 
but  in  my   hurry    it   seemed  twice   as   long — was   the 


A  Rush  for  the  Doctor  275 

cabman  taking  me  wrongly  ?  Should  I  find  myself 
in  some  slum  ?  If  I  did  not  return,  what  would  my 
grandmother  do  ? — would  she  send  for  the  nearest 
doctor,  and  so  not  let  my  father  die  ?  Oh,  I  hoped 
and  prayed  she  would  !  I  felt  as  if  I  must  open  the 
cab  door  and  jump  out  ;  I  thought  of  rapping  at  the  glass 
and  shouting  at  the  cabman,  but  what  good  would 
it  do  ?  I  knew  I  had  worked  myself  into  a  frenzy, 
and  so  I  sat  still,  with  my  hands  and  teeth  clenched, 
until  we  stopped  at  the  doctor's  door.  The  old 
cabman  thundered  at  it,  while  I,  with  great  perse- 
verance, opened  the  cab  door,  then  jumped  out,  rushed 
right  past  the  cabman  and  servant,  straight  into  the 
consulting-room. 

"Come  at  once — my  father's  dying!"  I  said,  seizing 
the  doctor's  hand. 

Mr.  Sellwood  was  a  little  man,  with  iron-grey 
hair  which  stood  almost  on  end.  He  had  known 
me  since  childhood.  He  wore  spectacles,  and  he 
glanced  at  me  from  over  the  top  of  his  glasses, 
saying  : 

"  Nonsense — nothing  of  the  sort,"  in  the  most 
determined  tone  ;  then  he  added  severely,  "  Just 
sit  down  and  calm  yourself ;  and  now  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

His  tone  had  calmed  me,  and  I  was  able  to  give 
him  a  clear  account.  As  I  talked  he  washed  his  hands 
and  collected  several  things  which  he  put  into  a  little 
black  bag  ;  then  he  made  me  drink  some  wine,   and 


27  6  In  the   Sixties    and  Seventies 

taking  my  hand  led  me  out  to  the  cab.  He  gave 
the  man  the  address. 

"Drive  like  the  wind!"  was  all  he  said  as  he  got 
in. 

I  think  Mr.  Rice  was  troubled  about  my  father, 
for  later  that  morning  he  came  to  see  how  he  was. 

'*  He  is  not  very  well,"  I  said  calmly,  but  I  did  not 
tell  him  that  he  was  in  bed  ;  my  father  had  expressed 
a  wish  to  see  him  if  he  called,  and  I  merely  asked 
Mr.  Rice  to  go  up  to  his  room.  He  went,  but 
returned  in  about  ten  minutes  looking  ghastly.  He 
sank  into  a  chair  and  asked  for  some  water.  I  rang 
for  some  ;  I  thought  he  would  have  fainted.  I  sat 
and  watched  him,  but  said  nothing.  For  some  time 
he  could  not  speak  ;  when  he  could  he  murmured 
some  excuse  for  the  trouble  he  was  giving  me,  and 
said  : 

"  I  cannot  endure  the  sight  of  blood — it  always 
turns  me." 

Still  I  did  not  speak  ;  I  was  glad  he  had  had  such 
a  fright,  I  thought  it  served  him  right.  Finding  I 
would  not  speak,  he  said,  in  a  pathetic  tone  : 

"  Oh,  Miss  Friswell,  do  you  think  this  my  fault  ^  " 

"  Why  did  you  take  him  out  last  night .''  "  I  asked 
severely. 

"I  did  not  propose  it,"   he  replied. 

*'  But  you  never  tried  to  prevent  his  going,  as 
I   asked   you." 

"  Then  you  think  I  am  to  blame  ?    You  are  cruel." 


Mr.  Rice  Explains  277 

Mr.  Rice  looked  so  pale  and  spoke  so  earnestly 
1  began  to  feel  sorry  for  him. 

"  If  your  father  dies,  you  will  put  his  death  at 
my  door,"  he  continued. 

"  I  suppose  he  would  have  had  this  attack,"  I  said 
reluctantly  ;  "  but  it  was  a  bad  night,  and  then  you 
need  not  have  insinuated  that  my  father  drank." 

Rice  gazed  at  me  in  horrified  amazement.  "  1 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing,"  he  said  ;  "your  father 
is  a  most  abstemious   man." 

"  Then  what  did  you  mean  } "  I  asked  earnestly, 
and  Mr.  Rice  was  obliged  to  explain  that  he  was 
only  joking,  and  that  "  won't  his  mother  let  him  out  .? " 
and  "can't  she  trust  him,  then.?"  were  catch  phrases 
at  one  time. 

He  looked  very  contrite  and  so  hurt  at  my  not 
understanding  his  jokes  that  I  there  and  then  gave 
him  a  pot  of  Morella  cherry  jam,  which  was  to  have 
been  sent  to  him,  as  it  was  somiCthing  of  which  he 
was  very  fond,  and  was  made  of  the  Bayard  Cottage 
cherries.     He  carried  it  away  as  a  peace  offering. 

That  same  afternoon  my  brother  and  I  went  to  Bexley 
Heath  to  send  up  my  mother.  I  think  we  did  our 
best  to  cheer  her  ;  but  when  she  had  started  and 
the  carriage  was  out  of  sight,  how  melancholy  we 
were  !  We  were  very  young,  and  complete  cockneys 
— we  were  all  alone,  and  knew  little  of  the  people  or 
the  place. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

J.  S.  RICE  AS  AN  EDITOR — THE  OFFICES  OF  "ONCE  A  WEEK" — A  RECIPE 
FOR  FALLING  HAIR — "THE  MORTIMERS'" — A  WONDERFUL  REVIEW 
— MR.  rice's  DELIGHT  THEREAT — RICE  ON  LITERARY  WOMEN. 

MR.  RICE  had  bought  Once  a  Week^  and  appeared 
to  be  editor,  proprietor,  staff,  and  manager, 
all  in  his  own  person.  We  were  not  so  Americanised 
in  the  seventies  as  we  are  now,  but  were  more  quiet 
and  less  pretentious.  Newspaper  offices  were  not 
ornamented  outside  and  on  the  staircases  with  coloured 
tiles,  reminding  one  of  public-houses.  The  offices 
of  weekly  papers  were  not  palatial,  nor  were  there 
Oriental  carpets,  modern  Chippendale  and  Queen  Anne 
furniture,  as  one  sees  now.  Typewriting  and  its 
attendant  nymphs  were  unknown,  or  I  am  sure 
Mr.  Rice  would  have  had  a  staff;  but  I  do  not  think 
he  would  have  consented  to  their  adapting  other 
people's  ideas,  and  making  patchwork  novels  for  his 
paper,  as  some  firms  are  so  strongly  suspected  of 
doing  now.  Grammar^  if  not  style,  was  considered 
then,  and  proprietors  of  papers  thought  something 
of  the  prestige  of  their  paper  ;  they  took  a  certain 
amount  of  pride  in  having  good,   well-written  stories 

278 


An  Editorial  Office  279 

and  articles,  and  did  not  go  in  so  much  for  the 
"  cheap  and  nasty  " — in  fact,  they  prided  themselves 
on  knowing  and  getting  a  good  thing  when  they  saw 
it.  They  were  more  artistic  and  less  commercial  ; 
they  were  not  slaves  to  show,  and  did  not  think  so 
much  of  fine  buildings,  servants  in  livery,  motor-cars, 
and  other  luxuries  ;  and  this  being  so,  the  papers 
were  not  turned  and  twisted  and  spoilt  because  their 
owners  only  thought  of  the  large  incomes  to  be 
squeezed  out  of  them. 

But   we  are   told   there   is  a   happy   medium   in  all 
things,   which    Mr.    Rice    evidently    did    not    believe ; 
for,    in    spite   of  his    fashionable    dress,    he   was    very 
careful  of  his  money,  and  the  offices  of  Once  a  Week^ 
which  were  in  Tavistock  Street,  Covent  Garden,  were 
dismal  in  the  extreme.     From  the  street  you  entered 
a    small    shop,    which    was    very    neat    and    tidy,    the 
paper  being  piled  on  shelves,  while  a  youth  of  twelve 
stood,  not  in  a  glass  cage,  but  behind  a  small  counter, 
and  politely  asked  you  your  business.      Having  stated 
your    wish    to    see    the    editor,   he    did    not    thrust    a 
small    printed   form   beneath   your    nose,   and   request 
you  to  write  your  name  and  business,  but,  after  saying 
*'  I  will  see  if  he  is  disengaged,"  he  came  from  behind 
the    counter    and  went   to   a  door   opposite   the  shop 
door,  and  disappeared,  reappearing  after  a  few  moments 
to  show  you  into  the  editor's  sanctum.     There,  in   a 
small,  dreary  back  room,  whose  walls  were  lined  with 
pigeon-holes    full  of  dusty,  yellow  papers,  and  whose 


2  8o  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

window  looked  into  a  suicidal  backyard,  sat  Mr. 
Rice  at  a  table,  with  a  blotting  pad  and  pen  and  ink 
before  him.  Though  1  called  several  times  with  my 
father,  I  never  saw  him  writing,  reading,  or  with  any 
papers  lying  about,  as  though  he  had  been  busy. 

We  sat  upon  cane  chairs  of  the  plainest  description, 
and  while  my  father  and  the  editor  talked  I  con- 
templated those  yellow,  dusty  piles  of  manuscript. 
When  had  they  been  written  ?  Who  had  written 
them  i" — and  how  long  had  they  been  there  P  Were 
they  accepted,  or  rejected  "  addresses  "  .? — who  could 
tell  ?  Did  Mr.  Rice  read  them  ?  Somehow  I  could 
not  imagine  his  doing  so. 

One  day  when  we  went  in  the  editor  was  very 
melancholy.  We  thought  the  sale  of  the  paper  had 
suddenly  stopped — but  no  ;  his  hair  was  "  getting 
thin  on  the  top,  and  he  had  only  discovered  it  that 
morning  !  Could  my  father  tell  him  what  to  do  ^  " 
My  father,  with  the  most  solemn  face,  gave  him  a 
wonderful  recipe,  in  which  cayenne  pepper,  cod  liver 
oil,  paraffin,  and  many  other  incongruous  things,  were 
mixed.  Before  writing  it  down,  Mr.  Rice  looked 
from  my  father  to  me  ;  but  I  was  equal  to  the  occasion, 
and  never  smiled.  Afterwards  I  made  my  father 
laugh,  by  saying  disgustedly,  "  Fancy  thinking  of 
your  hair^  when  there  are  manuscripts  to  read  !  "  Mr. 
Rice  always  declared  he  tried  the  mixture ;  he  certainly 
published  the  recipe  in  Ready  Money  Mortihoy. 

I  could   never  imagine    Mr.   Rice  as  an  editor,  and 


Two  Heroines  281 

certainly  not  as  an  author  ;  he  seemed  to  me  to  belong 
to  the  City  and  the  Stock  Exchange,  of  which  he 
was  so  fond  of  talking.  I  did  not  know  then  that 
he  would  become  one  of  our  most  successful  novelists, 
nor  that  he  would  honour  me  so  far  as  to  make 
me  (so  I  was  told  on  very  good  authority)  the 
model  of  two  of  his  heroines — Phillis,  in  The  Golden 
Butterfly,  and  Laura  Collingwood,  in  My  Little  Girl. 
Such  is  the  ingratitude  of  woman,  especially  of  a  young 
woman — I  read  the  books,  but  did  not  feel  at  all 
flattered  !  I  did  not  think  that  either  of  these  heroines 
was  particularly  well  drawn — they  both  seemed  to 
me  so  simple,  not  to  say  stupid.  I  hoped  I  had  not 
given  people  such  an  idea  of  simplicity,  and  so  I  said 
to  Mrs.  McCarthy,  who  was  my  authority.  She 
laughed,  and  replied  : 

"  You  are  the  most  simple,  down-right  girl  I  know  ; 
and  Mr.  Rice  tells  me  that,  with  the  exception  of 
making  your  hair  dark  brown,  and  your  eyes  brown, 
the  description  of  Phillis  in  The  Golden  Butterfly  is  you 
to  the  life  ;  why,  in  both  books  even  your  dress  is 
described — do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  it  ^  " 

"  I  should  not  have  noticed  it,  had  you  not  told  me." 

"  Then  Rice  need  not  have  been  afraid,"  said  Mrs. 
McCarthy,  with  a  laugh  ;  "  and  now  do  you  feel 
complimented }  " 

"  I  never  whistled  a  tune  in  my  life — I  can  only 
whistle  a  dog,"  I  said  resentfully  ;  "  and  1  learnt  to 
read  so  long  ago  I  can't  remember  it," 


282  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

Mrs.  McCarthy  laughed  again. 

"So  that  is  it — you  resent  Phillis's  late  education  ; 
but,  my  dear  child,  a  novelist  must  make  his  heroine 
peculiar  in  something  ;  of  course  she  is  not  an  exact 
copy  of  you — almost,  not  quite.  You  can't  whistle, 
she  can  ;  but  then  see  what  a  mimic  you  are,  so  is 
Phillis  ;  and  you  are  so  independent — more  like  a  boy 
than  a  girl,   Mr.   Rice  says." 

"  So  he  told  me,  once,"  I  replied,  and  added, 
"  1  wish  to  goodness  I  was  more  like  other  girls — I 
do  try  to  be." 

"Then  for  mercy's  sake  don't!"  was  Mrs.  McCarthy's 
smiling  reply. 

Mr.  Rice's  first  novel  appeared  in  Once  a  Week^ 
and  was  called  The  Mortimers^  A  Novel  with  Two 
Heroes.  It  is  illustrated  by  H.  K.  Browne,  and  is 
not  a  particularly  well-written  story.  Many  of  the 
pictures,  and  not  a  few  of  the  scenes,  have  a  strong 
Dickensy  flavour  about  them.  In  neither  one  case 
nor  the  other  is  this  remarkable,  as  "  Phiz  "  (H.  K. 
Browne)  illustrated  Pickwick,  and  Rice  was  a  great 
admirer  of  the  novelist,  and  his  sense  of  humour  was 
decidedly  Dickensian.  In  Mr.  Golightly,  the  Adven- 
tures of  an  Amiable  Man.,  one  can  see  a  likeness 
to  Verdant  Green,  and  this  I  remarked  when  I 
reviewed  it  on  its  appearance  in  book  form. 

It  came  out  in  1871,  and  the  title  was  somewhat 
changed,  it  being  called  The  Cambridge  Freshman^ 
or  the  Memoirs  of  Mr.  Golightly,  by  Martin  Legrand- 


My  First  Review  283 

My  father  did  not  wish  to  review  the  book  ;  and 
as  at  that  time  I  sometimes  acted  as  his  secretary, 
he  gave  a  copy  to  me  and  said  : 

"  Read  this,  and  write  down  just  what  you  think 
of  it,  clearly  and  concisely." 

It  was  my  first  attempt  at  reviewing  ;  I  was  rather 
appalled  at  the  importance  of  my  office,  but  I  did  my 
best.  My  father  found  no  fault,  except  telling  me  I 
must  not  make  jokes  ;  but  as  the  remark  was  rather 
witty  he  would  let  it  stand,  though  I  was  to  remember 
that  reviewing  books  was  too  important  a  matter 
to  joke  over  ;  but  he  looked  so  amused  when  he  said 
this  that  I  thought  him  only  half  in  earnest. 

I  have  part  of  the  review  before  me  now,  for  Mr. 
Rice  was  so  mightily  pleased  with  it  he  put  it  first 
of  all  those  quoted  from  the  Press  ;  but,  unfortunately, 
he  has  left  out  the  joke,  and  I  cannot  recall  it  ;  I 
only  know  it  was  something  about  St.  Martin's  Le 
Grand,  a  play  upon  the  author's  pen  name.  His 
pleasure  was  genuine,  for  he  did  not  know  who  wrote 
the  review  ;  and  how  I  came  to  witness  his  delight 
was  due  to  my  father,  who  brought  him  into  the 
drawing-room,  one  afternoon,  where  I  sat  at  work. 

*'  I    have    been    telling   your    father.   Miss   Friswell, 

what  a  good  review  I  have  had  in  the .     it  is  so 

well  written  I  made  sure  I  had  to  thank  him  for  it, 
but  he  tells  me  I  have  not,  and  I  am  rather  glad, 
for  it's  doubly  good  to  get  a  review  like  this  from 
a  stranger  ;    it  was  something   in   the    style   made  me 


284  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

think  it  your  father's,  but  so  many  people  imitate 
him  now — not  that  they  succeed,  they  flounder 
egregiously." 

Mr.  Rice  seemed  excited  and  restless,  and  walked 
about  as  he  talked,  while  my  father  sat  and  looked 
at  the  fire  with  a  smile  on  his  face. 

"  You  are  sure  you  did  not  write  it  .'' "  said  Mr. 
Rice,  pausing  close  to  me,  but  addressing  my  father. 

"  Quite  sure,"  returned  my  father,  looking  very 
much  amused  ;  but  as  he  always  had  a  very  bright  and 
cheerful  expression,  the  merriment  in  his  eyes  roused 
no  suspicion  in  the  breast  of  the  novelist. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  Rice,  and  read  us  this 
wonderful  review." 

"  Would  you  really  like  me  to  ?  "  exclaimed  Rice 
boyishly,  his  face  quite  beaming  with  pleasure. 

"  Of  course,"  said  my  father,  "  of  course." 

Mr.  Rice  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew 
out  a  very  smart  pocket-book,  and  opening  it  took 
out  the  review,  returning  the  book  to  his  breast- 
pocket. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  wear  it  next  your  heart,"  said 
my  father  ;  "  it  should  be  written  by  a  young  lady." 

"  A  woman  ! "  returned  Rice  in  a  contemptuous 
tone  ;  "  no  woman  could  have  written  this— when  did 
you  find  a  woman  with  a  sense  of  humour,  or  who 
would  appreciate  it  ?  Now  Golightly  is  a  humorous 
book  ;  a  woman  would  not  have  seen  it,  or  if  she 
had  would  have  written  something  scathing.     But  the 


A  Wonderful  Review  285 

reviewer  actually  makes  a  joke  ;  that  in  itself  is  a 
proof  it  is  not  written  by  a  woman — don't  you 
think  so  ? " 

My  father  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  gave  me  a 
merry  look,  which  I  was  afraid  Rice  would  see.  I 
felt  rather  indignant  with  the  novelist,  for  he  always 
had  something  to  say  against  women,  and  I  should 
have  liked  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  their  favour 
and  cry  aloud,  "  A  girl  wrote  the  review  you 
think  so  fine— a  girl  who  is  not  considered  in  the 
least  clever";  but  I  knew  my  father  would  not 
wish  me  to  tell  him,  that  if  it  was  to  be  told  he 
would  do  so  himself.  While  1  was  thinking  Mr. 
Rice  was  reading  my  review,  laying  particular  stress 
on  some  of  the  passages  that  he  thought  were  like 
my  father's.  When  he  had  finished  he  said  almost 
defiantly : 

"  I  consider  that  a  well-written  and  just  review. 
That  passage  about  the  new  author  seeking  to  do 
for  his  generation  what  Cuthbert  Bede  did  for  his 
is  good  and  true.  I  don't  think  much  of  the  joke 
about  St.  Martin's  Le  Grand,  but  reviewers  will  try 
to  be  facetious,  and — well,  it's  not  so  bad,  it's  rather 
witty  ;  but  what  I  like  best  is,  you  can  see  the  critic 
has  read  the  book." 

"Yes,"  said  my  father,  tapping  the  fingers  of  one 
hand  upon  the  knuckles  of  the  other.  "  Yes,  I  should 
say  the  book  has  been  read." 

"  And  by  a  'Varsity  man  too." 


286  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  I  should  not  like  to  say  that,"  replied  my  father, 
with  a  reflective  shake  of  his  head. 

"But  I'm  pretty  certain  of  it.  My  first  idea  was 
that  it  was  you  because  of  the  style,  but  now  I  think 
it's  one  of  the  clever  young  men  who  come  up  from 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  ;  there  are  so  many  now  in 
journalism." 

"  Yes,  worse  luck  !  "    interjected  my  father, 

"  Ah,  but  they  would  understand  a  book  of  this 
kind  ;  it  would  appeal  to  them,  as  it  would  not  and 
could  not  to  others — to  the  same  extent,  of  course, 
I  mean — and  that's  why  a  woman  could  not  have 
written  this." 

"  I  don't  see  that,  Mr.  Rice,"  I  ventured. 

"  Don't  you  .''  But  you  don't  know  much  about 
literary  women,  do  you  ?  " 

Before  I  could  answer  he  continued  :  '*  Literary 
women  !  I  abhor  them  !  They  are  as  plain  as  can  be, 
and  their  natures  have  been  warped  and  soured 
because  men  will  not   notice  them," 

My  father  laughed  aloud,  while  I  was  too 
astonished  to  speak  ;  when  1  found  my  voice  I  began 
indignantly  : 

"  Literary  women  are  not  ugly — Mrs.  Lynn  Linton 
isn  t 

"  No,  but  she — she  has  no  husband,"  returned 
Mr.  Rice. 

"  All  people  don't  want  husbands,"  I  retorted.  "  Be- 
sides,  that's   nothing   to   do  with    it  ;    women    can  be 


Rice  on  Literary  Women  287 

pretty  and  clever — it's  nonsense  to  think  that  women 
who  write  are  ugly  and  slovenly  in  their  dress.  Writing 
is  a  gift,  and " 

"  Don't  you  take  to  it,  you  are  far  too  pretty," 
returned  Mr.  Rice  hastily. 

"  That's  just  the  kind  of  horrid,  unjust,  and  absurd 

speech "I  began,  when  my  father  rose,  and  putting 

his  hand  on  Rice's  shoulder,  said  : 

"  You  have  done  it  now — you  had  better  come  into 
the  study  with  me." 

I  knew  from  my  father's  manner  that  he  did  not 
wish  Mr.  Rice  to  know  who  had  written  the  review, 
and  was  afraid  I  was  going  to  confess. 

"  Won't  you  congratulate  me  ^  This  is  the  very 
best  review  I've  ever  had,"  said  Rice. 

"  Oh,  I  do  ;  but  I  believe  a  woman  wrote  it,"  I 
added  mischievously. 

Mr.  Rice  shook  his  head,  and  gave  me  a  look  as 
if  he  pitied  my  ignorance  ;  and  then  the  door  closed 
upon  me,  and  I  was  left  to  enjoy  a  hearty  laugh. 

Rice  never  discovered  the  authorship  of  that  review, 
for  my  father,  who  had  meant  to  tell  him,  that  we 
might  all  laugh  together,  when  he  found  how  much 
he  thought  of  it,  refrained  from  doing  so — but  I 
had  many  a  temptation  when  I  heard  literary  women 
sneered  at. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

SIR  WALTER  BESANT — THE  INCORPORATED  SOCIETY  OF  AUTHORS— 
I  JOIN  THE  AUTHORS'  SOCIETY — AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  BESANT — 
HE  DISCOURSES  ON  HIS  FAVOURITE  TOPIC — "THE  GENTLE  LIFE" — 
AND  ITS  PUBLISHERS — A  LETTER  FROM  LADY  LYTTON. 

REMINISCENCES  of  J.  S.  Rice  naturally  re- 
mind me  of  Sir  Walter  Besant — older,  more 
practical,  and  even  more  level-headed,  I  should  say. 
Though  Mr.  Rice  gave  me  the  idea  of  not  being 
very  poetical  or  imaginative  in  the  days  when  I  knew 
him,  yet  I  have  heard  it  said  that  most  of  what  there 
is  of  poetry  and  humour  in  the  Rice  and  Besant  novels 
was  due  to  him. 

Sir  Walter  Besant  will  not,  perhaps,  go  down  to 
posterity  as  a  great  novelist,  but  rather  as  a  philan- 
thropist— the  friend  of  the  poor,  and  especially  of  the 
poor  literary  man  ;  and  this  will  be  greater  fame ; 
for  great  as  it  is  to  be  the  master  of  your  art,  I  think 
it  is  even  greater  to  be  the  promoter  of  two  such  in- 
stitutions as  The  Incorporated  Society  of  Authors  and 
the  People's  Palace. 

Speaking  of  the  Authors'  Society,  it  is  no  small 
thing  to  start  a  society  for  the  benefit  of  people  in 
your   own    class.     So   much    is   done  for  the  "  poor," 

288 


Besant   and  the  Authors^   Society         289 

so  little  for  the  great  middle  class — thousands  of  whom 
have  a  very  hard  struggle  to  make  a  living  at  all, 
thousands  of  whom  exist  in  penury,  if  not  in  absolute 
want  ;  and  no  one  knows,  nor  cares,  because  the 
gently  nurtured  amongst  the  middle  class  are  inde- 
pendent, and  do  not  grab  all  they  can  like  some  of 
the  rich,  nor  fawn  and  whine  as  do  so  many  of  the 
lower  class  ;  yet  theirs  is  often  the  harder  fate,  for 
being  between  the  two  stools  they  not  infrequently 
come  to  the  ground. 

The  troubles  and  quarrels  of  authors  have  filled 
books,  for  the  position  of  literary  people  has  always 
been  most  unsatisfactory  ;  therefore  it  is  no  wonder 
that  murmurs  of  discontent  were  always  to  be  heard. 
That  discontent,  as  Sir  Walter  Besant  says  in  his 
autobiography,  "  may  be  traced  back,  for  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years,  simply  by  the  continuous,  beaded 
string  of  epigrams  in  which  they  have  relieved  their 
angry  souls."  To  break  out  into  epigram  may  be 
clever  and  amusing,  but  it  is  not  so  businesslike  as 
starting  a  Society  with  these  three  objects  :  (i)  The 
maintenance,  definition,  and  defence  of  literary  copy- 
right ;  (2)  the  consolidation  and  amendment  of  the 
laws  of  domestic  copyright  ;  (3)  the  promotion  of 
international  copyright.  This  was  the  intention  the 
Authors'  Society  started  with  ;  and  though  it  was 
hoped  it  would  not  cause  offence,  it  certainly  did  so, 
in  the  minds  of  many  publishers,  and  even  of  authors 
themselves, 

19 


290  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

1    was    born    and     bred     within    a    literary    circle, 

and    had  heard  much   of   the   sharpness    of  publishers 

(not  from  my  father,  who  had  quite  an  affection   for 

S.    Low    &    Co.)    and    the    poverty  of  authors  ;    and 

still    it    seemed    to    me,    from   what   I    had    heard  and 

seen,  that  authors  worked  as  hard  as,  or  harder  than, 

others,    and    yet    were    treated    so    diff^erently.       One 

of  the  things  I  could  never  understand  was  why  people 

should    expect    an    author    to    give    away    his    books ; 

and    even    seem    to    think     that     they    were    paying 

the  author  compliments   by   asking   for  copies    of  his 

works  ;     yet    not    one    of   these    same    people    would 

have    thought    of    asking    a    merchant    friend     for    a 

bale  of  cloth,  or  a  doctor    to  visit   him   for   nothing. 

But  there  was  a  silly  feeling  that  it  was   beneath   the 

dignity  of  letters  to  go  into  the  business  side   of  the 

question.     Authors  and  their  families  were,  I  believe, 

supposed    to    live    on    flattery    and    fame  ;    but  if  so, 

it  was  a  very  poor  living,  for  fame  never  paid  butcher, 

baker,  or  tax-gatherer,  and   I   never  knew  a  tradesman 

go   without  his   money   for   the  honour  and   glory  of 

serving  Mr.    So-and-so,   the  well-known  novelist.     A 

doctor,    barrister,    actor,    or    indeed    any    member    of 

the    other    professions,    was   not  considered  mean  and 

grasping,    nor    was    he    reproached,    for  looking   after 

the  business  side  of  his  profession,  and  growing   rich 

if  he  could  ;    but,  to  quote  again  Sir  Walter  Besant, 

"  if  for  a  moment  any  author  begins  to  make  a  practical 

investigation    into    the    monetary    value    of  the    work 


Two   Values   in   Literary   Work         291 

he  puts  upon  the  market,  a  hundred  voices  arise, 
even  from  those  of  his  own  craft,  as  well  as  from 
those  that  live  by  administering  his  property."  This 
arises  from  a  confusion  of  ideas.  There  are  two 
values  in  literary  work,  which  cannot  be  considered 
together  :  the  first  is  the  artistic  value,  which  has 
to  do  with  the  construction,  accuracy,  and  style  of 
the  work,  and  on  this  the  author's  literary  reputation 
depends  ;  but  it  is  quite  apart  from  the  second,  the 
monetary  value — in  fact,  in  these  days  especially,  it 
is  not  always  the  literary  masterpiece  that  sells  ; 
and  as  publishers  and  editors  are  prone  to  look  at 
literary  work  merely  from  the  monetary  point  of 
view,  the  unfortunate  author  who  has  to  live  by 
his  pen  is  told  that  he  must  write  "  what  the  people 
like " — which,  by  the  way,  is  not  necessarily  what 
the  people  like,  but  what  the  editor,  or  the  manager 
of  a  limited  company,  thinks  they  like,  or  can  buy 
cheaply,  and  can  manage  by  advertisement  to  force 
down  the  unsuspecting  Public's  throat. 

I  have  heard  publishers  complain  that  authors  *'  are 
too  sharp  now,"  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  some 
writers  get  very  high  prices  indeed  ;  but  it  is  only 
in  a  few  cases,  and  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  author- 
ship is  very  precarious  and  badly  paid.  Besides  this, 
the  legitimate  author  now  has  to  contend  with  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  people  who  rush  into  the  profession. 
There  are  the  titled  people  whose  restlessness  must  find 
a  vent ;  there  are  the  rich  women,  generally  the  wives 


29 2  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

and  daughters  of  bankers,  judges,  or  members  of 
Parliament,  who  delight  to  show  their  culture  and 
learning  (?)  by  writing  articles  in  the  daily  papers, 
and  weekly  or  monthly  magazines — such  articles  ! 
A  rich,  titled  woman  is  of  course  quite  competent 
to  tell  the  small  housewife  how  to  manage  her 
"general,"  "how  to  keep  house  on  ^^loo  a  year," 
or  "  how  to  marry  on  five  and  twenty  shillings  a 
week."  These  "  curiosities  of  literature  "  would  be 
very  entertaining  reading,  if  they  did  not  remind  one 
of  how  the  Press  has  fallen,  and  of  how  the  large 
army  of  amateurs  has  come  in  and  helped  to  swamp 
the  market. 

Most  of  our  great  authors  have  written  to  provide 
themselves  with  the  necessities  of  life  ;  but  the  art 
of  writing,  as  I  understand  it,  is  not  to  let  this 
necessity  to  live  by  one's  books  become  too  apparent  ; 
for  a  true  artist,  while  he  is  writing,  thinks  only  of 
his  work,  and  not  of  what  it  will  fetch  ;  yet,  when 
the  book  is  once  finished,  it  is  foolish  if  the  author 
does  not  turn  into  the  man  of  business,  for  if  he 
does  not,  and  is  not  acquainted  with  some  idea  of 
its  monetary  value,  he  will  probably  be  over-reached — 
and  it  is  here  that  the  Authors'  Society  steps  in  and 
helps  those  who  will  apply  for  its  able  and  efficient 
aid. 

My  first  introduction  to  Sir  Walter  Besant  was 
through  the  Authors'  Society.  Soon  after  it  was 
started,    I    wrote    to    ask    what    kind    of   Society    it 


The  Authors^   Society  293 

was.  Mr.  Besant,  as  he  was  then,  very  kindly 
answered  me,  and  also  informed  me  that  he  had 
nominated  me  as  a  member,  I  felt  it  was  a  great 
honour,  and  one  that  1  little  deserved  ;  nor  was  1 
at  all  sure  that  I  wished  to  be  a  member,  for  I  had 
abandoned  "the  thorny  path  of  literature"  for  the 
equally  prickly  one  of  marriage  ;  and  as  I  had  very 
strict  ideas  upon  the  duty  of  a  wife,  I  was  immersed 
in  domestic  affairs,  which  means  I  did,  as  so  many 
of  us  much  abused  women  do,  nearly  all  my  own 
work,  and  stayed  at  home  in  the  exemplary  manner 
(so  men  tell  us)  of  our  grandmothers.  I  do  not 
quite  believe  about  our  grandmothers'  self-sacrifice  ; 
I  know  some  who  have  had  much  more  cheerful 
lives  than  their  descendants — but  that  is  not  on  the 
tapis  just  now. 

1  did  not  know  what  to  do  about  the  Authors' 
Society  ;  I  had  written  at  my  husband's  suggestion, 
but  I  was  not  sure  that  he  would  approve  of  my 
joining  anything  that  was  in  the  nature  of  a  club, 
for  so  I  understood  the  Society  to  be.  However, 
when  I  spoke  to  him  about  it  he  urged  me  to  go 
and  see  Mr.  Besant,  and  I  went. 

The  offices  of  the  Authors'  Society  were  then  in 
Portugal  Street,  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  there,  in  a  pleasant 
room  on  the  second  floor,  I  found  a  short,  sturdy 
man,  with  iron-grey  hair  and  beard,  a  bright  com- 
plexion, and  most  kindly  eyes,  which  beamed  at  me 
through    gold-rimmed    spectacles ;     such    was     Besant. 


294  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

Before  I  entered  his  room  I  had  paid  my  guinea  to 
Squire  Sprigge,  who  was  solemnity  and  politeness 
personified,  and  who  impressed  upon  me  the  honour 
I  had  had  conferred  on  me.  I  felt  duly  impressed, 
and  so  when  I  entered  Mr.  Besant's  presence  I  was  not 
so  cheerful  as  before  my  interview  with  Squire  Sprigge  ; 
I  felt  nervous,  and  began  to  wish  I  had  not  come, 
and  that  I  was  not  a  member  of  the  Authors'  Society. 

But  Besant's  pleasant  manner  soon  reassured  me. 
He  shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand,  said  he  "  had 
only  once  or  twice  seen  my  father,  but  he  knew  his 
books  well,  as  who  did  not  }  that  he  had  heard  of 
me,  indeed  of  us  all,  from  Mr.  Rice."  He  then 
began  talking  of  The  Gentle  Life  Series^  of  their  great 
success — "  phenomenal  for  books  of  essays,"  he  added. 
He  asked  if  I  could  give  him  any  information  as  to 
the  number  that  had  been  published  ;  I  said  I  could 
not  ;  he  then  suggested  my  asking  S.  Low  &  Co. 

There  was  no  Sampson  Low  then.  The  old  gentle- 
man, whom  I  remember  as  a  tall,  kindly  old  man, 
was  dead  ;  so  were  his  sons.  Mr.  William  Low,  the 
only  one  1  knew  well,  was  a  man  I  always  liked — he 
seemed  so  straightforward  and  sincere  ;  but  the  Lows 
were  not,  it  would  seem,  a  very  strong  family,  for 
Sampson  Low,  Junr.,  was  an  invalid  and  always  lived  at 
Brighton,  and  William  Low  was  a  martyr  to  headache. 

Besant  asked  me  to  get  for  him  some  statistics  of  the 
sale  of  The  Gentle  Life  *  from  Mr.  Edward  Marston, 

*  The  first  volume  of  the  Series. 


Besant   on   his   Favourite   Topic         295 

for  he  was  amazed   to  hear   from  me  that  my  father 
received  only  seventy-five  pounds  for  the  copyright. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  firm  never  gave 
your  father  anything  more — not  when  they  found 
what  a  great  success  it  was  ?  Why,  it  has  sold  like  a 
spelling  book  for  over  thirty  years  !  "  said  Besant,  with 
great  emphasis,  his  bright,  keen  eyes  fixed  on  my  face. 

I  told  him  that  when  Queen  Victoria  so  much 
admired  the  book  that  by  her  permission  and  desire 
an  edition  was  dedicated  to  her,  some  essays  were 
taken  from  the  first  two  volumes  and  called  "  The 
Queen's  Edition,"  and  Messrs.  S.  Low  &  Co.  and 
my  father  shared  equally  the  profits  on  that  edition, 
which  did  not,  however,  sell  like  the  first  two  books 
of  the  Series. 

Besant  reflected  a  moment,  and  said,  "  When  your 
father  died,  did  they  do   nothing  then  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied,  rather  astonished  at  his  vehemence  : 
"  you  see  my  father  sold  the  copyright." 

"  Oh,  they  were  not  obliged  to,  I  know  ;  but  the 
Lows  have  made  a  fortune  by  that  one  book  alone  ;  * 
don't  you  realise  that  ?  " 

*  T/ie  Gentle  Life  Series  was  translated  into  several  languages, 
while  the  first  two  volumes  were  bound  in  a  special  binding  for  the 
Army  and  Navy.  I  have  heard  Mr.  Sampson  Low  himself  say  that 
these  two  books  must  have  materially  helped  to  advertise  the  publishing 
firm  all  over  the  British  Empire ;  and  yet  when  Mr.  Marston  wrote 
an  account  of  his  house  in  The  Ptiblisher' s  Circular,  some  few  years 
ago,  and  gave  a  list  of  his  authors,  he  strangely  left  out  the  name  of  the 
author  of  The  Gentle  Life,  who  must  have  brought  them  so  much 
custom. 


296  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

"  Yes,"  I  said ;  then  I  added,  "  I  think  publishers 
are  like  butchers  and  bakers — they  make  their  good 
customers  pay  for  their  bad." 

Besant  did  not  smile  ;  he  looked  very  serious. 

There  was  silence  for  some  moments,  and  then 
I  said,  "  We  did  not  expect  anything  from  them,  all 
we  wanted  was  the  books  well  advertised,  but  they 
never  advertised  them  enough,  and  when,  shortly  after 
my  father's  death,  I  went  with  my  mother  and  sug- 
gested their  putting  advertisements  into  various  papers 
one  of  the  partners  asked  me  if  I  would  have  them 
advertise  The  Gentle  Life  Series  as  if  it  were  Pears'  Soap 
or  Holloway's  Pills." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly;  that  was  what  I  called  advertising." 

"  Quite  right,"  said  Besant  ;  "it  will  come  to  it  yet." 

We  then  talked  about  Mr.  Rice,  of  whose  family 
Besant  seemed  to  know  little,  for  he  asked  if  we 
knew  his  mother  or  any  member  of  his  family.  I 
said  we  did  not,  and  then  he  remarked,  "What  a 
curiously  reticent  man  he  was  !  "  He  told  me  about 
his  death,  and  spoke  very  nicely  of  him  ;  and  when 
I  rose  to  go  he  again  urged  me  to  get  him  statistics 
of  the  sales  of  The  Gentle  Life  Series,  and  spoke  very 
strongly  on  the  subject.  I  tried  to  make  excuses,  and 
as  Besant  shook  hands  he  said  : 

"  What  a  friend  you  are  to  publishers  !  "  and  then 
he  added  sarcastically  and  somewhat  bitterly,  "  I 
am  glad  you  are  so  fond  ot  them." 


How  to   Advertise  297 

I  made  no  reply,  but  as  I  went  downstairs  I  wondered 
if  I  had  offended  Mr.  Besant  by  trying  to  say  what 
I  could  on  the  other  side.  No  one  knew  better  than 
I,  who  had,  as  Mr.  Whiteing  once  graphically  put  it, 
"  been  born  in  the  purple,"  how  hard  authors  work, 
how  small  their  profits. 

But  here  I  had  better  explain  to  the  uninitiated  that 
The  Gentle  Life  Series  is  a  "  collection  of  essays  on  the 
formation  of  character,"  brought  out  in  several  books. 
Four  large  editions  of  the  first  volume  in  its  six- 
shilling  form  were  sold  in  the  first  four  years,  and 
this  was  an  unprecedented  success  for  a  book  of  essays, 
especially  in  those  days,  when  the  reading  public, 
though  more  educated  and  refined,  was  not  so  large 
as  now.  To  my  father  the  sale  was  of  little  pecuniary 
advantage,  for  he  sold  the  copyright — not  at  first,  but 
when  the  book  had  begun  to  sell  to  an  extent  he 
could  not  have  realised — the  publishers,  Messrs. 
Sampson  Low  &  Co.,  paying  the  small  sum  of  seventy- 
five  pounds  for  it. 

When  I  published  the  Memoir  of  my  father,  I  wrote 
to  Mr.  Marston  and  asked  him  for  statistics  of  the 
sale  of  The  Gentle  Life.  He  kindly  answered  me  to 
the  effect  that  some  books  he  had  kept  for  about 
forty  years  had,  "  in  the  choppings  and  changings  of 
this  mortal  life,"  disappeared,  "  and  it  is  in  these 
that  the  first  arrangements  with  your  father  are 
recorded." 

As  The  Gentle  Life  Series  sold  for  over  thirty  years, 


298  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

and  the  first  volume  was  in  its  thirty-eighth  edition  in 
1892,  it  would  have  been  interesting  to  know  how 
many  went  to  an  edition,  especially  as  I  was  informed 
by  a  well-known  bookseller  and  publisher  that  they 
regularly  stocked  the  Series  by  the  thousand. 

There  is  nothing  morbid  or  weakly  religious  in  The 
Gentle  Life  Series  ;  all  the  books  are  strong  and  manly, 
while  there  breathes  a  spirit  of  hope,  common  sense, 
cheerfulness,  and  love  of  humanity,  which  is  very  char- 
acteristic of  all  my  father's  work.  Kingsley,  in  a  letter 
to  him,  remarks  upon  this.  He  says  :  "  I  am  glad  to 
find  you  are  a  man.  Men  who  care  for  the  gentle 
life,  without  being  superstitious  or  hysterical,  are 
growing  more  and  more  rare."  My  father  was 
essentially — what  people  called  the  Canon — "  a  muscular 
Christian."  He  hated  all  sham,  hypocrisy,  and  snob- 
bishness. Queen  Victoria,  in  a  letter  to  my  father, 
said  she  wished  the  essay  on  "  The  Servants  within  our 
Gates "  could  be  written  in  letters  of  gold,  and  read 
by  all  her  subjects.  Lady  Lytton,  the  wife  of  Lord 
Lytton,  the  novelist,  writes  as  follows  : 

*'  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  if  we  English  ever  did 
consider  the  feelings  of  others,  I  should  evince  my 
gratitude  to  you  for  the  delightful,  evenly  delightful 
week  you  have  enabled  me  to  pass.  First,  by  renewing 
my  acquaintance  with  your  most  charming  Gentle 
Life^  which  ought  not  to  be  an  Elzevir  Edition,  but 
one  printed  in  golden  type.  Oh  !  how  true  is  all  you 
say  upon    '  Gentility  ' — it    is  the  curse   and  canker  of 


''Gentility''  299 

this  country,  and  the  eternal  straining  of  all  classes  to 
be  what  the  lower  and  middle  orders  elegantly  term 
'  genteel,'  that  makes  the  English  the  most  vulgar 
and  vulgar-minded  people  in  the  whole  world.  I  quite 
agree,  both  with  you  and  Victor  Hugo,  upon  the 
perniciousness  of  success  ;  still,  I  think  it  very  ungrate- 
ful, both  of  you  and  of  him,  to  promulgate  this  axiom, 
seeing  what  immortal  crowns  that  god  of  this  world 
has  woven  for  you  both." 


CHAPTER     XXVI 

A  DINNER  AT  THE  AUTHORS'  SOCIETY — I  FIRST  SEE  SIR  H.  M.  STANLEY — 
HOW  I  WISHED  HE  HAD  NOT  FOUND  LIVINGSTONE — MY  LAST 
INTERVIEW  WITH  SIR  WALTER  BESANT — HIS  ADVICE  ON  NOVEL 
WRITING. 

IT  was  at  the  Annual  Dinner  of  the  Authors'  Society 
that  I  first  saw  H.  M.  Stanley.  He  was  stand- 
ing quietly  at  the  side  of  his  wife,  who  was  talking 
to  some  friends,  and  who  looked  a  head  and  shoulders 
taller  than  he — indeed,  she  seemed  quite  to  overshadow 
the  little,  great  man,  while  the  author  of  Esther  Waters 
(George  Moore),  whom  1  very  much  wished  to  see, 
stood  near,  looming  large  and  fair,  with  a  great 
avalanche  of  white  shirt  front,  hands  thrust  in  pockets, 
and  a  cynical  smile  on  his  bright  red  lips.  Not  far 
from  the  group  was  the  new-made  Sir  Walter  and  his 
son. 

It  was  after  dinner  ;  the  heat  was  excessive.  There 
was  a  regular  babel  of  sound,  for  every  one  was  talking, 
it  seemed  to  me,  but  Stanley  and  myself.  He  was 
looking  decidedly  bored,  and  I  was  watching  him. 
I  looked  at  the  red-faced,  white-haired  little  man  with 

a    mixture    of   admiration,    amusement,    and    pity — he 

300 


H,   M.   Stanley  301 

seemed  so  out  of  place.  His  bored  glance  wandered 
from  the  different  groups,  scarcely  resting  a  moment 
on  any  one,  and  yet  his  eyes  would  pause  now  and 
then  (fine  eyes  they  were,  and  keen)  as  if  he  were 
making  mental  notes,  as  no  doubt  he  was,  of  the 
scene  and  the  people. 

I  looked  at  him  so  earnestly  that  twice  his  eyes  met 
mine,  and  in  another  moment  I  should  have  introduced 
myself  to  him,  for  1  should  have  liked  to  tell  him 
an  amusing  story  ;  but  as  I  hesitated  1  lost  him, 
tor  Lady  Stanley  made  her  adieus,  and  like  a  good 
and  affectionate  husband  he  followed  in  her  wake. 
First  I  was  disappointed  that  I  had  not  gone  up  to  him, 
that  I  had  never  shaken  him  by  the  hand,  never  let 
him  know  how  much  perplexity  and  weary  work  his 
first  book  gave  me.  Then  I  felt  glad — perhaps  my 
story  would  not  have  pleased  him  ;  and  yet  I  think  he 
would  have  laughed,  had  he  known  that  when  first 
my  eyes  rested  on  his  familiar  face,  I  said  to  myself : 

"  Ah,  so  there  you  are,  Mr.  Stanley  ;  I  see  you  at 
last  in  the  flesh,  and  I  have  a  bone  to  pick  with  you. 
I  am  glad  you  are  married  and  settled  down,  and 
enjoying  a  well-earned  rest,  and  I  hope  you  will  live 
long,  after  all  you  have  been  through.  You  are  a  very 
wonderful  man  ;  I  wonder  what  you  are  thinking  of 
now.  Is  it  of  your  meeting  with  that  great  man 
Livingstone,  or  is  it  of  Darkest  Africa— that  awful 
forest,  of  those  pigmy  men  and  women  ?  Do  we 
literary  people,  who  think  so  much  of  ourselves,  seem 


302  In   the   Sixites   and   Seventies 

pigmies  to  you  ?  No,  I  don't  think  we  do  ;  I  fancy 
you  are  a  little  bit  afraid  of  us,  and  a  great  deal 
bored  by  us." 

Here  Stanley  looked  at  me  as  if  1  had  spoken,  and 
Sir  Walter  Besant,  following  his  gaze,  looked  at  me 
also,  and  immediately  turned  his  head  another  way  ; 
and  at  that  I  asked  myself,  "  Does  he  think  I  am 
going  to  ask  him  to  introduce  me  to  Stanley  ? — as  if 
I  had  not  every  right  to  speak  to  him  and  to  introduce 
myself  if  I  chose,  considering  the  trouble  1  had  with 
his  dreadful  manuscript." 

Then  the  years  rolled  back,  and  I  saw,  as  in  a  vision, 
a  very  good-looking,  grey-haired  man  turning  over  a 
bulky  manuscript,  which  was  written  in  a  small, 
rather  cramped  hand,  and  corrected  in  many  places  ; 
I  saw  a  tall  girl  standing  at  his  side. 

*'  This,"  said  the  grey-haired  man,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  manuscript  and  looking  at  the  girl,  "  is  Stanley's 
great  book,  How  I  found  Livingstone.  Low  &  Co. 
are  going  to  bring  it  out,  but  Marston  writes  me  that 
it  wants  great  revising,  that  it  will  never  do  as  it  is  ; 
and  he's  about  right  there — it's  not  well  written,  it's 
ungrammatical,  and  ill-spelt.  I  fear  it  will  be  a  great 
task," 

'*  The  handwriting  is  not  very  legible,"  said  the  girl. 

"  That  is  a  small  matter  compared  with  others.  It  is 
wanted  in  a  hurry  ;  I  wrote  to  say  1  would  not  under- 
take it,  but  Marston  says  1  am  the  only  man  they 
care  to  ask.     Now  what  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  read 


"  How   I   Found   Livingstone  **  303 

it  carefully  through,  and  correct  all  the  grammar  and 
spelling." 

The  girl  bent  over  the  manuscript  and  read  out  a  few 
sentences  ;  then  she  stood  up  and  looked  at  her  father. 

"  Can't  you  send  it  back  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  want  to  oblige  the  publishers ;  besides,  they 
will  pay  well — I   shall  charge  a  hundred  pounds." 

The  girl  took  up  the  manuscript  with  a  faint  sigh, 
and,  going  to  the  other  side  of  the  table,  commenced 
her  task.  She  was  considered  a  champion  grammarian 
at  school,  but  was  always  in  hot  water  over  her 
spelling.  She  had  her  own  original  way,  and  so 
had  H.  M.  Stanley  ;  and  what  with  hers  and  Stanley's, 
she  had  endless  recourse  to  the  dictionary,  till  between 
the  three  she  was  so  hopelessly  befogged  and  muddled, 
that  she  has  never  quite  recovered,  and  does  not 
know  how  to  spell  to  this  day. 

She  wrestled  with  the  grammar,  spelling,  and  com- 
position of  that  book  for  many  days — in  fact,  till  the 
days  ran  into  weeks  ;  but  even  then  it  was  quickly 
done.  Once  she  lost  patience,  and,  feeling  a  grudge 
against  Stanley,  The  New  York  Herald^  and  Living- 
stone, she  flung  the  manuscript  across  the  table, 
exclaiming,  "  I  wish  he'd  never  found  Livingstone  !  " 
Her  father  laughed.  "  Others  have  said  they  don't 
believe  he  is  found,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  beheve  he  wanted  to  be,"  returned  the 
girl,  and,  though  a  girl  no  longer,  she  still  retains 
that  opinion. 


304  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

My  father  often  saw  Stanley,  and  liked  him.  All 
the  proofs  of  that  book  passed  through  mine  and 
my  father's  hands.  There  is  an  entry  in  his  diary 
on  Monday,  September  2nd,  1872:  "Go  to  meet 
Stanley.  Read  proofs  of  his  book."  The  manuscript 
was  greatly  cut  and  altered,  and  when  it  came  out 
the  critics  were,  1  believe,  somewhat  surprised  at  the 
clear,  concise  style  in  which  it  was  written  ;  they 
would  have  spoken  differently  had  they  read,  as  I 
did,  the  manuscript. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Sir  Walter  Besant  was  at 
Messrs.  A.  &  C.  Black's,  in  Soho  Square,  not  long 
before  his  death,  I  had  written  a  letter  to  The  Author 
on  "Piracy,"  as  a  number  ot  letters  on  the  subject  were 
appearing  at  that  time  in  the  Society's  Journal.  I 
had  been  very  much  victimised,  especially  as  regards 
children's  stories,  and  I  had  given  some  of  my  ex- 
periences. My  letter  was  not  put  in,  as  Sir  Walter 
had  been  advised  to  stop  the  correspondence,  but 
he  asked  me  to  come  and  see  him  and  give  him  the 
exact  details.  So  I  found  myself  one  sunny  afternoon 
sitting:  in  the  old-fashioned  window  seat  in  Messrs. 
Black's  shop,  glancing  through  some  books,  and 
looking  up  every  now  and  then  at  the  plaster  cast 
of  a  statue  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  There  he  sat, 
looking  perpetually  calm  and  untroubled  ;  but  how 
hard  he  worked,  what  a  harassing  time  he  had  when 
his  publishers  fell  into  difficulties,  and  what  a  fine 
sense   of  honour  !     Was  there  an   author  living  who 


Sir   Walter   Besant  305 

would  have  done  the  same  ?  I  thought  there  were 
several  ;  my  father  certainly  would,  and  so  would 
have  Sir  Walter  Besant.  As  I  sat  thinking  of  the 
first  Sir  Walter,  the  second  came  in  and  passed 
slowly  by  the  statue  and  up  the  stairs.  With  a  shock 
I  realised  that  he  looked  much  older  and  greyer  than 
when  I  had  seen  him  last  ;  but  I  knew  he  had  not 
been  well,  and  I  hoped  he  would  recover  his  alert, 
bright  manner  as  the  weather  became  finer,  for  I  did 
not  know  the  cause  of  his  illness. 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  shown  into  his  room,  and 
sitting  by  his  desk  I  gave  him  the  details  for  which  he 
asked  ;  then  we  talked  of  the  Authors'  Society  and 
the  Authors'  Club.  I  told  him  that  women  should 
belong  to  the  latter,  as  there  should  be  no  sex  in 
literature.  He  quite  agreed,  but  said  it  had  been 
put  forward  before  the  Club  was  started,  and  it  was 
thought  that  the  subscription  was  too  heavy  for 
literary  women.  I  said  I  had  seen  something  of  the 
sort  in  The  Author^  and  thought  it  a  singular  idea  ; 
I  also  remarked  that  the  entrance  fee  and  sub- 
scription should  not  be  too  heavy  for  either  men 
or  women,  for  literary  people  were  not  rich  as  a 
class. 

"  But  men  are  paid  in  that,  as  in  everything,  much 
better  than  women,"  said  Sir  Walter. 

I  knew  this  was  true,  but  felt  annoyed,  for  it  is 
so  scandalously  unfair,  and  I   said  so. 

"  It  is  the  same  in  Government  offices,  and  every- 

20 


3o6  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

where  :  women  are  underpaid — they  can  live  on  less 
than  men." 

"  Because  they  are  less  extravagant  than  men,  it 
is  no  reason  why  they  should  take  less  money  for 
the  same  work,  especially  as  I  have  heard  it  said  that 
they  often  do  their  work  more  conscientiously," 

Sir  Walter  admitted  he  had  heard  the  same  thing, 
but  that  did  not  do  away  with  the  fact  that  women 
were  underpaid. 

"  It  only  aggravates  it,"  I  returned,  and  then  I 
said  that  the  Authors'  Club  could  not  be  considered 
a  representative  club  when  it  excluded  women  from 
its  membership.  To  this  he  agreed,  and  said  he  had 
thought  the  same,  but  there  were  difficulties  ;  however, 
he  "  was  glad  to  hear  a  woman's  views  on  the  subject 
and  he  would  see  what  arrangement  could  be  made  ; 
for,  as  the  Authors'  Club  was  an  offshoot  of  the  Society, 
it  certainly  should  admit  the  women  members." 

We  then  talked  of  novels,  of  the  difficulties  young 
authors  have  of  getting  a  publisher  to  take  them  up, 
and  the  curious  way  readers  have  of  overlooking  good 
books — or  so  it  would  seem,  from  the  stories  one 
hears  of  such  books  as  Vanity  Fair  being  rejected 
five  or  six  times.  He  told  me  Rice  and  he  published 
Ready  Money  Mortiboy  themselves,  and  he  spoke  very 
highly  of  a  Mr.  Burghley,  a  publisher  to  whom  he 
advised  me  to  go  if  I  wanted  to  publish  a  novel. 
He  gave  me  much  good  and  kindly  advice,  and 
said  : 


Sir  Walter  Besant  307 

"  You  can  write,  and  well.  Put  plenty  of  love 
in  your  stories  :  novels  are  principally  written. for  and 
read  by  women,  and  women  like  it — they  can't  do 
without  it."  He  paused  and  looked  at  me,  but  as 
I  did  not  speak,  he  said,  "  Now  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

I  did  not  think  so,  and  do  not  now  ;  but  I  did 
not  say  so,      I  said  : 

"  You  agree  with  Byron,  that  '  Love  is  of  man's 
life  a  thing  apart  ;    'tis  woman's  whole  existence  '  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  yes,  I  think  that  is  true,  and 
if,  as  you  say,  you  are  writing  for  a  living,  you  must 
put  plenty  of  love  in  your  stories." 

"  It  is  the   part   I   like  writing  least." 

"  And  reading  most  .^  "  he  added. 

I  laughed. 

"  Ah  !  Now  you  are  convicted,  and  now  you  will 
admit  that  women  cannot  do  without  love — it  is  their 
sole  existence." 

I  had  risen  to  go  ;  we  were  both  standing,  and  1 
hesitated ;  there  was  so  much  I  should  have  liked  to 
say  on  the  subject,  but  I  was  afraid  of  taking  up 
Sir  Walter's  time,  and  I  had  another  appointment, 
so  I  only  smiled  and  held  out  my  hand  to  say  good- 
bye. Sir  Walter  Besant  shook  hands  in  his  sincere 
and  hearty  manner,  and  accompanied  me  to  the  door 
His  last  words  were  : 

"  Mind,   plenty  of  love   in    it,    plenty  of  love." 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

WE  GO  TO  LIVE  AT  BEXLEY  HEATH — REMINISCENCES  OF  ARTEMUS  WARD 
— JOSEPH  HATTON — ARTHUR  SKETCHLEY — SARAH  BERNHARDT'S 
EXHIBITION  IN  PICCADILLY — A  FASHIONABLE  WEDDING — GLADSTONE 
AND   SIR    WILLIAM   HARCOURT. 

WHEN  we  finally  settled  at  Bexley  Heath  my 
father  seldom  went  to  town  except  on  business, 
or  to  some  literary  dinner,  and  my  mother,  who  cared 
little  for  society,  and  who  was  always  anxious  about 
my  father's  health,  practically  gave  up  visiting.  This 
was  very  unfortunate  for  a  girl  on  the  verge  of  woman- 
hood, and  I  began  to  find  life  in  the  country  very 
dull  indeed.  To  us  young  people  it  was  social 
banishment,  and  very  hard  to  bear,  especially  as  I 
was  not  allowed  to  wander  about  the  woods,  fields, 
and  lanes  by  myself,  and  was  told,  if  I  grumbled, 
that  it  would  not  be  safe,  and  I  must  be  content  with 
the  orarden. 

o 

How  I  missed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  McCarthy,  their  young 
people,  and  their  pleasant  At  Homes  !  How  I  missed 
our  own  parties  and  our  cheerful  five  o'clock  teas,  at 
which  some  author  or  actor  used  to  drop  in  daily  ! 
How    we    all    missed    the    visits    of   Irving,  Creswickj 

308 


Joseph  Hatton  309 

Joseph  Hatton,  E.  P.  Kingston,  Rice,  and  others  ! 
Joseph  Hatton  was  then  a  young  author,  full  of 
enthusiasm,  and  had  just  published  his  novel  Clytie^ 
which  was  very  successful.  He  was  a  good-looking 
man,  with  plenty  of  push  and  go  in  him  ;  I  think 
his  first  novel  was  one  called  Bitter  Sweets,  for  I 
have  a  letter  before  me  in  which  he  speaks  of  my 
father's  sympathy  with  him  over  the  treatment  which 
the  book  received  "at  the  hands  of  a  certain  critic 
on  a  well-known  literary  journal."  Mr.  Hatton  says 
"  it  could  only  be  the  offspring  of  spite."  My  father 
had  suffered  from  the  same  critic,  for  the  letter 
congratulates  him  on  "  taking  the  bull  by  the  horns, 
and  fighting  him  so  thoroughly,  ably,  and  success- 
fully." 

Mr.  E.  P.  Hingston  was  a  great  friend  of  Artemus 
Ward's  ;  he  had  become  acquainted  with  the  humorist 
in  America,  and  liked  him  so  much  that  he  became 
his  business  manager.  Hingston  was  a  very  pleasant, 
genial  man,  short  of  stature,  and  with  a  long  brown 
beard.  The  first  evening  he  spent  with  us  he  taught 
us  to  play  "  Poker,"  and  he  told  us  many  funny 
stories  of  Mr.  Charles  Browne  (Artemus  Ward),  of 
whose  singular  humour,  originality  of  style,  and 
eccentric  spelling  every  one  was  then  talking. 

Artemus  Ward  himself  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with 
a  well-shaped  but  small  head,  sunken  cheeks,  an 
aquiline  nose,  a  large,  fair  moustache,  and  bright, 
piercing  eyes.     When  he  lectured  he  had  a  panorama 


3IO  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

representing  The  Great  Desert,  Salt  Lake  City, 
The  Salt  Lake  Hotel,  The  Great  Salt  Lake,  The 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  so  on.  He  wore  evening 
dress,  and  as  he  spoke  he  never  moved  a  muscle, 
but  maintained  the  greatest  gravity  while  saying  the 
drollest  things,  which  convulsed  his  audience  with 
laughter.  He  was  almost  in  the  last  stage  of  con- 
sumption, and  so  painfully  thin  that  he  was  but 
a  walking  skeleton.  His  lecture  was  as  curious  as 
his  manner ;  it  was  composed  of  telling  sentences, 
each  ending  with  a  trap,  into  which  the  audience 
fell  quite  naturally,  and  then  extricated  itself  with 
a  hearty  laugh  ;  while  the  lecturer  looked  mildly 
astonished,  or  affected  an  expression  of  indigna- 
tion because  his  remarks  were  made  the  subject 
of  mirth.  He  acted  this  so  well  that  there  was  no 
appearance  of  acting,  and  in  this  lay  his  art  and  his 
charm.  He  was  a  very  good  man,  and  every  one 
who  had  any  dealings  with  him  seems  to  have  loved 
him.  He  had  great  determination  and  pluck,  and 
struggled  against  his  mortal  illness ;  indeed,  he  lectured 
when  he  should  have  been  in  bed,  and  my  mother, 
who  saw  him  towards  the  close  of  his  entertain- 
ments and  his  life,  said  that  he  looked  dying  as  he 
lectured. 

His  entertainment  was  given  in  the  Egyptian  Hall, 
Piccadilly,  which  he  had  hired  of  Arthur  Sketchley, 
another  well-known  entertainer.  As  he  was  not 
certain   of  his   physical   powers  of  endurance,   nor   of 


I 


Recollections  of  Artemus   Ward         311 

how  far  his  entertainment  would  be  appreciated  by 
the  English,  ''  Artemus,"  says  Mr.  Hingston,  "  re- 
frained from  making  alterations  in  the  exhibition  room, 
and,  to  quote  his  own  joke  on  the  humorous  pro- 
gramme he  distributed  :  *'  During  the  vacation  the 
Hall  has  been  carefully  swept  out,  and  a  new 
door  knob  has  been  added  to  the  door."  This  is 
a  specimen  of  his  humour,  and  here  is  another. 

At  the  commencement  of  one  of  his  lectures  he 
walked  on  to  the  platform,  and,  turning  up  his  eyes 
and  gazing  round  the  Hall,  he  looked  down  at  the 
audience,  as  if  he  were  about  to  take  them  into  his 
confidence,  and  remarked  in  a  slow,  solemn,  mildly 
complaining  tone,  "  I  wish  the  Egyptians  who  built 
this  Hall  had  known  a  little  more  about  ventilation." 
This  was  so  unexpected  that  after  a  moment  the 
whole  room  roared  with  laughter,  and  then  there  were 
loud   bursts   of  applause. 

His  entertainments  ran  only  seventeen  weeks,  and 
then  the  lecture-hall  closed,  never  to  reopen  for 
him  again.  He  died  at  Southampton,  having  pro- 
ceeded this  little  way  on  his  road  home  to  Waterford 
in  Maine,  where  he  had  left  a  mother  to  mourn  the 
loss  of  a  good  son.  Mr.  Hingston,  in  his  Genial 
Showman^  gives  a  short  sketch  of  his  life,  which  was 
not  a  long  one,  for  he  was  quite  young  when  he  died. 
The  author  says  "  many  attempts  have  been  made  to 
imitate  the  manner  and  style  of  Artemus  Ward,  but 
lione  has  succeeded  in  a  faithful  reproduction," 


312  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

We  also  knew  Arthur  Sketchley  (the  Rev.  Arthur 
Rose).  1  was  a  school-girl  when  I  first  heard  him 
in  his  inimitable  Mrs.  Brown  at  the  Play.  My 
mother  took  Miss  Wharton  Simpson  and  myself, 
and  we  had  seats  almost  in  front  of  the  lecturer. 
Miss  Simpson  (Mrs.  William  Black)  and  I  laughed 
so  inordinately  that  we  had  pains  in  our  sides,  and 
could  not  sit  upright.  The  entertainer  was  so  amused 
at  watching  our  appreciation  of  his  humour  that, 
unconsciously,  he  kept  edging  his  chair  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  edge  of  the  platform,  till  at  last  one 
leg  went  over,  and  he  almost  pitched  head-first  into 
the  laps  of  the  audience  !  At  this  there  were  renewed 
bursts  of  laughter  from  the  two  girls  at  the  end  of 
the  second  row  of  seats,  and  Sketchley,  regaining  his 
balance  by  a  miracle,  roared  with  laughter,  so  that 
the  whole  room  was  convulsed. 

But  to  return  to  Bexley  Heath.  When  we  finally 
settled  there,  all  these  entertainments  were  practically 
over  ;  however,  I  used  to  come  up  to  town  in  the  season, 
and  then  my  father's  friends,  Messrs.  Irving,  Creswick, 
Thorne,  Toole,  etc.,  would  send  me  seats  (generally 
boxes)  for  the  theatre.  In  this  way  I  remember  seeing 
Sarah  Bernhardt  act  ;  I  believe  it  was  when  she  first 
came  over,  but  of  that  I  am  not  sure.  W^hat  I  re- 
member most  clearly  was  speaking  to  her  at  her 
exhibition   in  Piccadilly. 

My  father  had  an  invitation,  but  did  not  care  to 
go,    so    1    went    with    Mrs.    S ,    a    friend    of  my 


f 


Sarah   Bernhardt  313 

mother's,    with    whom    I    often    used  to   stay.     Mrs. 

S was  so   full  of  enthusiasm  and   delight  at   the 

idea  of  going  to  this  exhibition  that  I  wondered  what 
she  expected.  I  did  not  wish  to  damp  her  pleasure, 
but  I  could  not  help  remarking  that  "of  course  we 
could  not  expect  to  see  anything  so  good,  either  in 
pictures  or  sculpture,  as  we  should  at  the  Royal 
Academy,"  and  then  I  found  out  that  it  was  Sarah 
Bernhardt  herself,  and  the  people  she  had  invited,  who 
were  the  attraction. 

We  went ;    we  arrived  very  early,  as   Mrs.  S 

thought  there  would  be  a  crush.  There  were  only  a 
very  few  people  there  when  we  made  the  tour  of  the 
gallery  ;  and  certainly  the  pictures,  and  especially  the 
sculpture,  were  wonderful  for  an  amateur,  and  more- 
over for  a  busy  woman  whose  life-work  was  acting. 
As  we  walked  round,  having  the  gallery  practically  to 
ourselves,  the  great  Sarah  came  in,  and  after  some 
talk  with  the  attendants  began  herself  to  walk  round. 

Then  said    Mrs.  S to    me,  "Now   go  and   speak 

to  her  before  the  room  gets  crowded."  I  hung  back, 
but  after  a  little  persuading  I  went  up  to  her  and  we 
shook  hands,  and  we  discussed  a  little  picture  close 
by  where  we  were  standing.  All  I  can  remember 
about  that  picture  is  that  it  was  very  green — too 
green,  I  thought  it,  and  the  actress  agreed  with  me,  and 

told  me  where  and  how  it  was  painted.      Mrs.  S 

then  joined  in  the  conversation,  and  we  passed  on  to 
the   sculptured   groups,   and   Sarah  Bernhardt   pointed 


314  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

out  a   group  which   1    think   must    have  been   "After 

the  Storm."      I  know  Mrs.  S and  I  liked  it  very 

much. 

The  room  began  to  fill  and  soon  we  were  hemmed 
into  a  corner.  All  the  celebrities  of  London  seemed 
to  be  there,  and  still  the  people  came.  The  great 
actress  did  nothing  but  shake  hands  and  bow,  evidently 
enjoying  it  very  much  ;  and  I  stood  near  her  and 
enjoyed  it  too.  It  was  there  that  I  saw  Gladstone 
for  the  second  time.  The  first  time  was  at  one  of 
the  Literary  Fund  Dinners,  at  which  were  also  the 
King  of  the  Belgians,  the  Duke  of  Connaught, 
Cardinal  Manning,  and  many  other  celebrities.  Glad- 
stone made  a  most  eloquent  speech  at  the  dinner, 
and  I  then  fully  understood  how  he  charmed  people. 

The  last  time  I  saw  "  the  Grand  Old  Man,"  as  he 
was  called,  was  many  years  after  ;  it  was  at  the 
wedding  of  Sir  Edward  Malet  with  Lady  Ermyntrude 
Russell,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  I  am  not  fond  of  weddings,  and 
never  go  to  them  ;  but  as  I  knew  the  bridegroom's 
brother,  and  he  offered  my  husband  and  me  tickets, 
I  could  not  well  refuse. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  crush  there  was.  We  had  to 
leave  the  carriage  and  make  our  way  on  foot  down  by 
the  side  of  the  Abbey  towards  the  cloisters.  There 
the  crowd  was  even  greater,  and,  as  the  tickets 
were  different  colours,  some  policemen  kept  calling 
out  : 


I 


In   Westminster   Abbey  315 

"  Show  your  tickets  !  show  your  tickets  !  Blue 
tickets  this  way  !    blue  tickets  this  way  !  " 

Ours  were  blue  tickets,  and  I  held  mine  high  in 
the  air  ;  I  had  a  lady  friend  with  me,  for  my  husband 
could  not  go.  We  struggled  along  through  the 
crowd,  fearing  for  our  dresses,  and  were  almost 
forced  through  a  gate  into  the  cloisters,  where  we 
found  the  wedding  guests,  who  were  packed  like 
sardines,  or  herrings  in  a  barrel  ;  we  could  scarcely 
breathe,  and  when  the  last  bridesmaid  was  thrust  in 
and  the  gate  clanged  to  upon  her,  I  whispered  to  my 
friend  : 

"  We  might  be  prisoners  in  a  cell — unhappy  wretches 
awaiting  the  sentence  of  death,  instead  of  the  youth, 
beauty,  and  flower  of  the  English  aristocracy  going 
to  a  wedding." 

"What  will  our  dresses  look  like  .^ "  whispered  my 
friend. 

"  Thank  goodness  our  chiffons  are  not  chiffons, 
but  something  more  substantial  !  "  I  retorted  ;  and  then 
Sir  Henry  Malet  (brother  of  the  bridegroom)  looked 
at  me,  and  we  exchanged  smiles  ;  it  was  impossible 
to  shake  hands,  or  even  bow — we  were  packed  too 
tightly. 

"  Reminds  one  of  the  black  hole  in  Calcutta,"  said 
a  soldierly  man  in  a  loud  whisper.  Beads  of  per- 
spiration stood  on  his  face,  but  he  could  not  lift  a 
hand  to  get  at  his  handkerchief.  Just  as  we  were 
all  declaring  the  heat  was   unbearable  a  door  opened 


3i6  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

at  the  side  of  the  cloisters,  and  we  were  bid  to  "  come 
this  way.  Bridesmaids  first."  Not  all  the  brides- 
maids were  there,  but  those  who  were,  after  much 
struggling,  went  first.  I  was  alarmed  for  their  dresses 
as  I  saw  them  huddling  them  up  to  cross  a  narrow, 
dirty  yard.  The  wedding  guests  followed  in  a  troop, 
and  we  went  up  a  long  flight  of  stone  steps,  then 
through  a  doorway  and  up  some  very  dirty  stairs,  across 
a  very  dusty  room  which  looked  like  a  vestry,  down 
more  stairs,  and  at  last  found  ourselves  in  the  Abbey, 
our  seats  waiting  for  us. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  when  I  was  seated,  "  if  this  is  not 
a  back-stairs  way  of  getting  in  I  should  like  to  know 
what  is." 

But  we  all  congratulated  ourselves  that  we  had 
"  arrived  safely  and  avoided  the  crush.  It  must  be 
dieadful  at  the  main  entrance,"  we  said,  and  by  all 
accounts  it  was. 

I  think  everybody  that  was  anybody  was  at  that 
wedding.  It  was  one  unbroken  line  of  notable  people, 
and  any  one  can  see  from  the  papers  of  the  time  who 
was  there.  What  I  was  struck  with  was  their  want 
of  dignity,  their  bad  behaviour.  As  soon  as  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  had  passed  down  to  the  vestry, 
every  one  rushed  to  get  out — some  to  see  the  bride 
again,  to  see  her  enter  her  carriage,  some  to  go  home, 
or  to  the  reception,  or  to  some  other  entertainment. 
But  without  an  exception  there  was  a  rush  for  the 
doors,    and,   do   what  we  would,  we   could   not    help 


The   Grand   Old   Man  317 

ourselves,  and  so  we  found  ourselves  carried  on  with 
the  crowd,  and  finally  I  and  my  friend  were  jammed 
in  the  doorway,  unable  to  move.  The  bride  had 
gone,  but  carriage  after  carriage  came  up,  the  horses 
prancing  and  tossing  their  heads,  and  one  felt  afraid 
of  being  pushed  under  their  feet.  I  remember 
seeing  one  poor  little  bridesmaid  flattening  herself 
against  the  wall,  her  face  terror-stricken.  I  put  out 
my  hand  to  drag  her  back,  and  should  have  been 
forced  violently  against  her,  had  not  my  friend  seized 
my  arm  and  pulled  me  back  ;  at  the  same  time  I 
heard  a  voice  saying  : 

"  It's  four  o'clock  !  it's  four  o'clock  !  We  shall 
be  late  for  the  House,  Harcourt ;  we  must  get  out." 

The  speaker  was  just  at  the  back  of  me  and  pushing 
dreadfully;  but  I,  grasping  my  friend's  arm,  stood 
back  ;  then  I  turned  my  head  and  saw  Gladstone  and 
Sir  William  Harcourt. 

The  Grand  Old  Man  was  looking  very  eager  and 
hurried,  and  almost  panting  for  breath.  I  was  very 
angry,  and  therefore  felt  cool  and  courageous. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  this  ungentlemanly 
behaviour  ^  "   I  asked  indignantly. 

"  We  are  late  for  the  House,  madam,"  returned  the 
Grand  Old   Man. 

"  And  is  that  any  reason  why  we  should  be  killed 
by  those  horses  .''  If  you  were  men  you  would  keep 
the  crowd  back." 

"  She's    right    there,"    whispered    Harcourt  ;    "  we 


3i8 


In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 


must    keep    the    crowd    back.       I    beg    your    pardon, 
madam." 

Gladstone  looked  very  cross,  but  did  as  he  was 
requested,  and  muttered  something  which  I  took  for 
an  apology.  They  kept  back  the  crowd  ;  the  brides- 
maid got  into  her  carriage,  and  before  ours  came 
up  we  passed  out,  Sir  William  Harcourt  and 
Gladstone  bowing  as  they  donned  their  hats  and 
hurried  away. 


I 


1 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

OLD  LETTERS — LADY  LYTTON'S  CORRESPONDENCE  WITH  MY  FATHER — 
SOME  ANECDOTES  OF  BENJAMIN  DISRAELI — DISRAELl'S  DEVOTION 
TO  HIS  WIFE — LADY  BEACONSFIELD — MR.  H.  D.  TRAILL  ON  REMINIS- 
CENCES— THE  END. 

MOST  literary  people  have  a  large  circle  of 
friends  and  acquaintances  with  whom  they 
correspond,  and  my  father,  who  was  fond  of  letter 
writing,  was  no  exception  to  the  rule — indeed,  I  think 
in  those  days,  when  life  was  not  so  strenuous  as  it 
is  now,  people  took  more  pains  with  their  corre- 
spondence ;  and  though  they  did  not  write  such  long 
letters  as  in  the  days  of  Horace  Walpole,  yet  their 
correspondence  was  very  different  from  that  which 
we  indulge  (?)  in  now  ;  their  letters  were  chatty, 
entertaining,  amusing,  human  documents— not  so 
stilted  as  those  of  the  generation  before,  and  quite  as 
interesting. 

My  father  was  a  very  good  letter  writer  ;  but 
unfortunately  I  have  few  of  his  letters,  and  when  I 
was  about  to  write  his  Life,  and  advertised  in  The 
Athenaum^  I  was  disappointed  at  the  few  that  were 
sent  me  ;  so  many  people  had,  they  said,  destroyed 
the  whole  of   their  correspondence,  deeming  it  either 

319 


320 


In  the   Sixties   and   Seventies 


unsafe,  useless,  or  saddening  to  keep  old  letters. 
There  is  perhaps  something  melancholy  in  reading  the 
correspondence  of  those  who  have  long  passed  away  ; 
and  yet  how  much  we  should  have  lost,  and  how 
little  we  should  know,  of  the  private  histories 
of  people  if  it  were  not  for  old  letters.  If  we 
long 

...  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still, 

as  we  all  must,  and  do  at  times,  I  think  we  can  almost 
feel  the  hand  and  hear  the  voice  when  we  read  old 
letters. 

One  of  my  father's  most  voluminous  correspond- 
ents was  Lady  Lytton,  the  wife  of  Bulwer  Lytton, 
the  novelist.  She  would  write  as  often  as  once  a 
week,  or  oftener  if  there  was  anything  in  my  father's 
•  answers  that  called  forth  her  indignation  or  admiration. 
I  have  most  of  her  letters  by  me,  and  had  1  his  they 
would  make  most  entertaining  reading. 

From  the  trend  of  Lady  Lytton's  letters,  she  and 
my  father  appear  to  have  talked  over  most  of  the 
notable  people  and  popular  books  of  the  time,  and 
to  have  attacked  each  other's  prejudices  and  opinions 
in  no  sparing  manner.  Certainly  she  attacked  many 
of  his  opinions,  and  occasionally  there  seems  to  have 
been  a  battle  in  which  her  zeal  outran  her  discretion, 
for  in  no  measured  language  Lady  Lytton  runs  down 
literary  people,  governments,  politicians,  and  institutions. 


Lady   Lytton  321 

and   sometimes   rails  at  my  father   for  his  "  fondness 
for  the  powers  that  be." 

As  every  one  knows,  Lady  Lytton  had  been  a  beauty 
in  her  day,  and  she  was  when  we  knew  her  a  handsome 
well-preserved  old  lady,  with  a  charming  manner, 
a  pleasant  smile,  and  a  wonderful  gift  of  repartee. 
But  her  misfortunes  (I  might  use  a  stronger  word, 
and  say  her  husband's  ill-usage)  had  made  her  bitter  ;. 
therefore  her  wit  was  decidedly  caustic,  if  apt. 

She  lived  in  a  pretty  little  house  in  Upper  Sydenham, 
which  she  called  her  *'  prison,"  or  *'  Tartarus,"  often 
dating  her  letters  from  "  Tartarus,"  and  generally 
signing  herself  "  Rosina  Lytton  (alas  !  !)."  Here  she 
was  surrounded  by  old  Italian  pictures,  books,  bronzes, 
and  really  beautiful  wood-carving — in  fact,  what,  as 
she  said,  Mrs.  Hudson  (the  wife  of  the  "  Railway 
King  "),  copying  Mrs.  Malaprop,  called  her  "  bigotry 
and  virtue."  But  in  spite  of  all  these  beautiful  things 
she  was  very  poor,  having,  she  says  in  one  of  her 
letters,  "but  ;^200  a  year," 

"  I  do  not  see,"  she  continues,  "  why  that  Blue 
Book  in  breeches,  the  present  Lord  Derby,  should 
not  be  appealed  to,  to  get  a  clause  inserted  in  the 
poor  law  amendment  for  the  relief  of  pauper  peeresses, 
seeing  that  it  was  his  father,  the  late  Lord  Derby, 
who  was  the  inventor  of  that  supererogatory  grievance, 
the  Pauper  Peeress — so  you  see  you  are  not  the 
only  one  looking  forward  to  sitting  under  the  shadow 
of  your    own    workhouse.       I    have   always    thought 

21 


32  2  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

Andrew  Marvel  a  very  over-rated  man  ;  cold  mutton — 
no,  nor  even  cold  shoulders  either  have  any  terrors 
for  me  ;  so  here  I  am  and  my  poverty,  continuing 
our  living  experience  of  inter-mural  burial,  and  I 
must  say  never  was  sepulchre  sweeter,  or  fresher,  or 
cleaner,  and  not  the  least  whited.  I  have  none  of 
the  vulgarising,  depressing — aye,  and  deteriorising  too 
— surroundings  of  poverty ;  though  I  have  all  the 
pinching  realities  in  cold,  now  that  coal  and  all  else 
is  so  dear." 

The  letter  I  have  just  quoted  is  dated  1873.  She 
first  wrote  to  my  father  in  1870,  and  continued  to 
do  so  till  his  death.  She  was  a  great  admirer  of 
his  writings,  and  had  for  many  years  taken  in  a 
weekly  journal  simply  to  read  his  essays  and  the 
answers  to  correspondents  which  he  wrote. 

"  I  read  and  heed  you  every  week,"  she  writes ; 
*'  all  I  can  say  is  that  if  you  are  not  a  good  man 
you  ought  to  be  hanged  ;  pardon  the  if^  but  it  is  a 
way  they  have  among  authors'  wives — knowing  what 
they  know,  poor  wretches — to  receive  everything  fair, 
virtuous,  lovely,  and  of  good  repute,  that  they  meet 
in  print,  cum  grano  sails  as  to  its  being  identical  with 
the  writer.  However,  as  it  has  been  truly  said  that 
the  best  way  of  doing  good  is  to  be  good  ;  and  as 
you  do  good,  argal  you  must  certainly  be  good. 
Now  you  may  chop  this  truly  feminine  logic  into  anv 
amount  of  mincemeat  you  like." 

My    father    was    a   great   admirer    of   Disraeli,   and 


Benjamin   Disraeli  323 

liked  him  personally  very  much.  Lady  Lytton,  who 
knew  him  well  as  a  young  man,  disliked  him  greatly, 
and  was  never  tired  of  abusing  him,  giving  him  sly 
digs,  or  of  telling  some  amusing  but  ridiculous  story 
about  him.  Here  I  will  quote  one  of  the  most 
harmless. 

"  Times  are  changed  with  Dizzy  since  his  debut, 
when  I  could  not  get  any  one  (except  old  Lady  Cork 
— who  was  celebrated  for  her  human  menageries — 
and  old  Lord  Hertford,  who  let  me  bring  whom  I 
pleased)  to  let  me  bring  hiai  to  any  salon  in  London, 
from  his  grotesque  appearance  and  ridiculous  dress, 
for  he  had  got  himself  up  as  an  astounding  facsimile 
of  his  own  young  duke — green  velvet  incompre- 
hensibles,  white  blonde  ruffles,  and  black  silk  stockings 
with  broad  scarlet  ribs  !     When  he  sent  me  his  T'oum 

o 

Duke  to  read  in  MS.  I  told  him  he  could  not  dress 
him  in  that  way.  *  What  !  '  said  he,  in  the  only 
paroxysm  of  innocent  good  faith  he  ever  had  in  his 
life,  '  don't  young  dukes  dress  in  that  way  ? ' — '•  None 
that  I  have  ever  seen.' — I  asked  D'Orsay  one  day 
what  he'd  take  to  dress  like  Dizzy  ?  '  Leave  of  my 
senses  ! '  was  his  reply." 

One  can  scarcely  believe  that  Disraeli  could  have 
dressed  himself  as  Lady  Lytton  describes  ;  yet  if  he 
did  it  was  but  an  error  of  taste,  due  perhaps  to  his 
Oriental  origin.  Even  that  origin  Lady  Lytton  uses 
as  a  weapon  against  him. 

''  As  I  know  you  are  a  great  deferrer  to  and  admirer 


324 


In   the    Sixties   and   Seventies 


of  the  powers  that  be,  I  congratulate  you  upon  Dizzy's 
descent  into  the  peerage.  Having  the  power,  I  think, 
he  was  quite  right  to  confer  an  earldom  on  himself — 
I  confess  I  should  like  to  see  him  in  his  peer's  robes  ; 
he  would  look  such  a  gorgeous  facsimile,  all  black, 
scarlet,  and  yellow,  of  *  the  Black  Princely  Devil  * 
in  a  book  of  Chinese  superstitions  that  Captain  Marryat 
once  lent  me ;  but  above  all  I  should  like  to  see 
his  glance  of  ineffable  scorn  at  his  mushroom  fellow 
peers,  for,  as  I  said  in  a  skit  I  wrote  on  him  years 
ago  : 

"  '  Upstart  each  name  that  Doomsday  Book  discloses, 
Compared  to  hzs\  old  as  tlie  book  of  Moses.'"' 


It  has  been  remarked  by  a  writer  in  The  Gentle- 
man s  Magazine^  that  "  all  the  biographies  of  Lord 
Beaconsfield  pass  lightly  over  his  home  life  and 
domestic  relationship  ;  and  yet  these  phases  of  his 
career  disclose,  perhaps,  the  finest  traits  in  his  character." 
He  and  the  great  Liberal  leader,  Gladstone,  had  two 
advantages  in  common — they  both  had  wives  who 
subordinated  every  personal  consideration,  every  private 
ambition,  to  the  public  careers  of  their  husbands ; 
and  they  were  alike  in  being  both  good  husbands. 
This  served  as  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  them. 

"  There  are  three  things,"  said  Gladstone  to  Canon 
MacColl,  "  for  which  I  shall  always  admire  Disraeli 
— his  devotion  to  his  wife,  his  defence  of  his  race, 
and  his  splendid  parliamentary  pluck." 


Benjamin   Disraeli  325 

What  better  character  can  a  man  have  given  him 
than  this  ? 

Before  Disraeli  was  a  statesman  he  was  an  author. 
Vivian  Grey  was  the  first  book  that  brought  him 
fame ;  and  it  was  doubtless  then  that  he  became  a 
frequent  guest  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Wyndham  Lewis, 
who  was  a  man  of  wealth,  owning  some  property  in 
Glamorganshire  and  a  fine  house  in  Grosvenor  Gate. 
He  and  Disraeli  became  colleagues  in  Parliament  for 
the  borough  of  Maidstone,  and  after  Mr.  Lewis's 
death,  as  every  one  knows,  Disraeli  married  the  widow. 

It  has  been  said  that  this  marriage  was  a  *'  marriage 
of  convenience."  Disraeli  himself  used  to  laugh  and 
tell  his  wife  that  he  married  her  for  her  money ; 
but  this  was  mere  chaff.  His  attention  and  devotion 
to  her  have  been  called  gratitude  ;  but  if  so,  they  bore 
a  greater  likeness  to  love  than  much  that  is  called 
by  that  name.  I  think  that  they  were  a  model 
couple,  and  that  they  mutually  loved  each  other. 
Certainly  from  the  following  anecdote,  told  to  my 
mother  by  Lady  Lytton,  it  would  seem  to  have 
been  a  love  match  on  the  part  of  the  Viscountess 
Beaconsfield. 

"My  mother,"  said  Lady  Lytton,  "went  to  call 
upon  Mrs,  Wyndham  Lewis,  to  condole  with  her 
upon  the  death  of  her  husband.  She  had  no  sooner 
entered  the  room  than  the  widow  came  forward,  all 
smiles  and  eagerness,  '  Congratulate  me,  my  dear  !  * 
she  said,  '  Disraeli  has  proposed  1  '  " 


326  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

I  have  heard  admirers  of  Disraeli  call  him  a  hand- 
some man ;  others  have  declared  he  was  ugly ;  I 
myself  should  call  him  neither  one  nor  the  other, 
but  I  think  he  had  a  most  interesting  face,  and 
this  reminds  me  of  an  anecdote  I  have  told  in  my 
father's  Life,  but  which  will  bear  repetition,  as  it  shows 
Lady  Beaconsfield's  opinion. 

My   father    was    one  day    dining    at ,    and    at 

the  close  of  the  evening  he  took  the  Viscountess 
Beaconsfield  down  to  her  carriage.  As  he  did  so  he 
remarked  to  her  : 

"  Mr.  Disraeli  spoke  most  eloquently  to-night;  and 
how   well  he  is  looking  !  " 

The  Viscountess  looked  up  into  my  father's  face 
with  a  very  pleased   expression. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  "  you  think  he  looks  well — 
you  think  him  handsome,  yet  people  call  him  ugly ; 
but  he  is  not,  he  is  handsome  ;  they  should  see  him 
asleep." 

Lady  Lytton  also  told  the  following  story,  which 
I  have  since  seen  in  print.  The  Viscountess  Beacons- 
field  was  fond  of  going  down  to  the  House  of 
Commons  with  her  husband,  though  she  would  never 
go  in  and  listen  to  the  debates,  as  she  had  made  a 
vow  that  she  would  never  attend  a  debate  until  Mr. 
Disraeli  had  taken  his  seat  as  Prime  Minister.  One 
day,  when  they  had  driven  down  to  the  House,  as 
he  stepped  out  and  shut  the  carriage  door  she  put 
out  her  hand  and  accidentally  her  fingers  were  caught 


Viscountess  Beaconsfield  327 

in  the  door ;  she  turned  deadly  pale  but  never  uttered 
a  cry,  for  she  knew  he  was  about  to  take  part  in  an 
important  debate,  and  feared  the  knowledge  of  the 
accident  woul  upset  him.  When  he  was  out  of 
sight  she  called  to  the  servant,  who  opened  the 
carriage  door  and  released  her  fingers.  The  footman 
would  have  rushed  after  his  master,  but  she  would 
not  allow  it,  so  they  drove  as  fast  as  they  could 
to  a  doctor's,  who  attended  to  her  hand.  Disraeli 
was  himself  fond  of  telling  this  story,  being  proud  of 
his  wife's  devotion  and  grateful  to  her  for  all  she 
had  done  for  him. 

Even  Lady  Lytton,  at  whose  house  they  first  met, 
cannot  refrain  from  giving  Disraeli  praise  for  his 
devotion  to  his  wife  ;  and  certainly  in  this  respect 
he  and  Gladstone  have  set  an  example  to  their  fellow 
men  that  it  would  be  to  every  one's  advantage  if 
more  of  them  would  follow. 

"  Poor  Lady  Beaconsfield  !  "  writes  Lady  Lytton  ; 
"  I  never  thought  I  should  feel  her  death  so  much, 
but  now  1  only  remember  how  kind  she  was  ta 
me  as  a  girl,  and  long  after,  till  she  married  Dizzy, 
when  those  twin  harpies,  the  World  and  Ambition — 
in  the  shape  of  his  political  thimblerig  pal  my  Lord 
Lytton — '  intervening,'  she  was  told  to  faire  vode  face. 
Poor  soul,  God  be  merciful  to  her  1  she  was  as 
severely  and  cruelly  tried  by  wealth,  happiness,  pleasure, 
gratified  vanity,  success,  and  a  ceaseless  and  insolent 
prosperity,    as    I    have    been    by    the    most    brutal 


328  In   the   Sixties   and   Seventies 

persecution,  blackest  ingratitude,  bitter  injustice,  and 
ceaseless  misfortune.  Though  Dizzy  only  married  her 
for  her  money,  I'll  do  him  the  full  justice  to  believe 
that,  after  having  for  a  time  reaped  the  benefit  of 
it,  had  she,  by  one  of  those  cruel  treacheries  of  fate 
so  rife  in  this  world,  lost  all  her  possessions,  he  has 
sufficient  of  the  Damascus  blade  of  Chivalry  of  a 
true  gentleman  to  have  continued  equally  kind  and 
prevenant  to  her,  and  I  am  sure  now  he  sincerely 
mourns  her." 

Here,  with  the  death  of  the  Viscountess  Beacons- 
field,  I  will  close  my  book,  or  I  may,  like  Tennyson's 
brook,  go  on  for  ever  ;  for  when  one  begins  to 
write  reminiscences,  there  seems  to  be  no  end, 
and  I  have  no  wish  to  tire  my  readers  out.  I 
will  therefore  add  only  one  more  interview,  which 
shows  how  In  the  Sixties  and  Seventies  came  to  be 
written. 

When  I  published  the  Memoir  of  my  father,  I  had 
occasion  to  write  to  Mr.  Traill,  editor  of  Literature^ 
to  correct  a  careless  mistake  his  reviewer  had  made 
in  reviewing  the  book.  Mr.  Traill  inserted  my  letter, 
wrote  privately  and  apologised,  and  asked  me  to  call 
and  see  him  any  time  I  was  passing  The  Times  office. 
So  one  day  I  called,  and  was  shown  into  a  vast, 
gloomy  room.  In  a  few  moments  Mr.  Traill  entered, 
shook  me  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  said  :  "  What 
an  interesting,  well-written  book  yours  is  !  I  wish  I 
had  read  it  sooner,  I  would  have  reviewed  it  myself." 


H,   D.  Traiirs  Advice  329 

I  told  him  I  was  extremely  sorry  he  had  not 
done  so. 

Then  we  settled  down  to  talk  of  the  people  we 
had  mutually  known,  and  I  told  him  many  of  the 
stories  in  this  book.  He  seemed  especially  interested 
in  Irving,  and  much  amused  at  my  account  of  the 
first  night  of  The  Bells  ;  he  also  said  that  my  descrip- 
tion of  Irving,  sitting  listening  to  Mendelssohn's 
"  Songs  without  Words,"  was  lifeHke. 

"You  should  write  your  own  reminiscences,  and 
mind  and  put  all  the  anecdotes  in  from  the  Memoir," 
he  said  ;  and  when  I  objected,  he  replied  :  "  Why 
not  }  anecdotes  are  what  the  Public  like  ;  you  have 
interested  me,  why  not  others  ?  You  say  you  are 
writing  for  your  living — well,  write  your  reminis- 
cences ;  the  book  will  go." 

"  But  reminiscences  are  so  egotistical  ;  the  critics 
will  say  I  am  vain,  and  I  know  not  what 
else." 

*'  Let  them  ;  what  does  it  matter  if  the  book 
pleases  the  Public  .^  An  author  must  have  a  good 
pachydermatous  skin  ;  don't  you  know  that  V 

"  Is  it  fair,"  I  asked,  "  to  write  about  these  people, 
who  have  been  kind,  and  petted  me  as  a  child  ^  I 
like  them  all,  but  I  could  not  perhaps,  with  truth, 
show  them  all  in  a  pleasant  hght  ;  and  I  should 
hate  to  think  that  any  words  of  mine  had  hurt  or 
belittled  them." 

"  I   don't  think   you  will   do  that  if  you  write  the 


23^  In   the   Sixties   and    Seventies 

truth,  and  your  own  impressions  ;  and  one's  youthful 
impressions  one  remembers  best.  The  Memoir,  I 
tell  you,  is  well  written  ;  the  anecdotes  are  excellent — 
there  might  have  been   more." 

"  The  publisher  wanted  more  ;  but  I  was  writing 
my  father's  life,  not  anecdotes  of  other  people,  in 
which  I  came  in  too  much  ;  so  I  cut  the  Dickens 
anecdote  short,  and  only  put  in  half  the  Tennyson — 
it  was  too  complimentary." 

Mr.  Traill  laughed.  "  Write  another  book  and 
put  the  whole  in,  compliments  and  all,  and  I'll 
review  it." 

"  I  think  I'll  wait  till  some  more  of  the  well-known 
people  are  dead,"  I  said,  as  I  shook  hands  with  him 
at  the   top  of  the  stairs. 

"Don't,"  said  Mr.  Traill;  "I  want  to  review 
it." 

I  came  away,  meaning  to  take  his  advice.  But 
I  delayed — delayed  too  long,  for  when  the  book  was 
half  written  I  heard  of  Mr.  Traill's  death.  One 
more  literary  friend,  who  had  known  my  father, 
was  gone.  I  was  very  sorry,  and  I  locked  up  my 
MS.  for  several  years  ;  yet  I  always  felt  I  should 
finish  it,  for  Mr.  Traill  said  it  would  please  the  Public, 
and  what  author  does  not  want  to  please  the  Public  ? 
besides,  I  felt  the  great  compliment  Mr.  Traill  had 
paid  me,  for  I  knew  his  judgment  in  literary  matters 
was  considered  infallible. 

I  would  only   add  that  I  have  tried  to  keep  from 


A   Personal  Note  33^ 

intruding  too  much  upon  my  readers,  but  I  fear 
1  have  not  altogether  succeeded ;  therefore  I  would 
remind  them,  and  my  critics,  that  all  reminiscences 
are  bound  to  be  leaves  from  the  lives  of  the  writers, 
and,  however  much  one  may  wish  to  avoid  egoism,  it 
is  not  possible  in  a  book  of  this  kind. 


THE     END 


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